


Rising Earth

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Batjokes, Conditioning, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by messageredacted’s Teeth in the Grass, Island Survival, Islands, Lazarus Pit, Lazarus Pit AU, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Psychological Trauma, Supernatural Elements, Survival, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-24 05:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 79,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13804713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky
Summary: They’ve escaped the infected only to come face-to-face with an indefinite future on a remote island. The rules have changed—it is kill or be killed—but Bruce knows what he has to do. Keep Gordon and his kids alive and the Joker from hurting anyone. And if he loses his sanity along the way, it’s a small price to pay.Little does Bruce know that the island isn’t all that it seems. The past he thought he’d left behind in another life, back in a shattered Gotham, has been ahead of him this entire time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Teeth in the Grass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/320165) by [messageredacted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted). 



> Many thanks to messageredacted for allowing me to write a fic/sequel inspired by their wonderful story, Teeth in the Grass. I keep fangirling over that amazing fic, one of several that recently drew me to this pairing. I’ve been a Batman fan for long, long time, but I’m a newbie to Batjokes. I imagine some of you will understand when I say that this discovery has been the equivalent to opening the doors of a brand new world. I’ve really enjoyed reading the Batjokes fics out there and acclimating myself to the pairing, as well as venturing into a new genre. One that’s new for me, anyway. Hopefully, I haven’t erred in my characterization of the Joker, a character I’ve never written before. Let me down gently if I have. :D
> 
> My goal was for this to be roughly the same length as Teeth in the Grass. Alas, since my fic is character/plot driven, and I’m not as confident writing action, it’s going to be longer. Please note that I’m taking a few liberties with canon, but everything is loosely based on various details pertaining to Batman, either in the Nolanverse or Comics.
> 
> I’ve left off numerous tags to keep the element of surprise. I’ll also post warnings and such in the endnotes to avoid spoiling things for you. If you’re easily triggered, please check the endnotes first before reading each chapter. The rating will most likely go up in a chapter or two.
> 
> I was going to wait to post until I finished writing the story, but I’d love to find a beta reader for this fic, a second pair of eyes to catch mistakes, offer opinions, etc. If you’re interested, feel free to comment below.
> 
> The story picks up not long after the final scene in Teeth in the Grass. I highly recommend reading messageredacted’s story before you begin this one. :)

 

oOo

  
Chapter One

“If this isn’t as good or better than sharing a cell, I’m not sure what is. We have the unpredictable, deep waters of the bay at our fingertips, and the bloodthirsty infected at our backs.”

 

oOo

 

 

Only after the dock vanishes from sight, and he’s certain there aren’t any infected floundering in the water, does Batman loosen his grip on the wheel. His racing pulse keeps him on edge and alert, and he knows the moment the Joker begins climbing the ladder behind him to the cockpit.

 

Having spent days with the Joker, closely observing him every waking hour, he recognizes the steady breaths of a man who knows no fear. The soundless steps he makes when under pressure. The dark brown eyes that need a minute to clear when he awakens. The smile that isn’t always there.

 

Still, old habits die hard. Batman’s first instinct is to spin around, gauntlets raised, anticipating a knife. It’s what he would’ve done a year ago. A month ago. Last week. But they’d just escaped from the infected by the skin of their teeth, and the Joker is without his knife. Batman had forced him to hand it over after they made it into the yacht.

 

The Joker won’t be on the offensive and, although Batman is reluctant to admit it, threatened is the last thing he feels when it comes to the Joker. He calmly waits at the wheel, confident in what little power he currently holds over the other man and intending to use it to its full advantage. He is the reason the Joker’s on the yacht, after all. The Joker won’t jeopardize his status as a passenger or risk being thrown off the boat by trying to kill him or anyone else on board. At least, not yet.

 

The Joker clears his throat behind him, indicating he’s reached the cockpit.

 

When Batman looks back, he catches a distinct wariness on the Joker’s face before he masks it with a twisted smile. He wonders what the Joker thinks he’ll do. Change his mind? Kick him off the boat? Hurt him? _Kill_ him? Has Batman departed from his own moral code _that_ much?

 

“Permission to come aboard,” the Joker says with a tilt to his head, “ _Sir?”_

 

“Batman has been called many things,” he says dryly. “Sir isn’t one of them.”

 

The Joker grins. “There’s a first time for everything.” He walks towards Batman, visibly relaxing. “It’s all clear. For now, anyway.”

 

Although rear cameras had been installed several years ago, Batman had told the Joker to watch the back of the boat for any infected until Gordon could take over and they were a safe distance from the docks. They can’t depend on the cameras alone. There are blind spots and other limitations to consider. One mistake, a simple misjudgement, is the difference between life and death.

 

“We’ll be fine,” Batman says. “They can’t swim well.”

 

“You _really_ think that will keep us from meeting up with any infected out here?” Joker asks.

 

“It’s possible, but unlikely,” Batman says, considering how many infected could be lost in the river, eventually drowning and carried out to the bay, or frozen in their current state only to spring forth during the thaw. He doubts the threat of infected will ever end, but they don’t have to worry about it now. “You can keep watch, if you want to be useful.”

 

He glances down at the console, debating if he should try another channel on the radio, but is quickly sidetracked.

 

He bites back a curse. His hands are shaking uncontrollably like they had whenever he used the gun. He slides his hands down the wheel in an effort to steady them, but there is no way to to disguise the tremors and the Joker is an observant man. He misses nothing.

 

“And hang out with Father Knows Best?” Joker scoffs. “Yeah, that’ll be real fun. For you, his second son, maybe. Not for me.”

 

Batman grinds his teeth. If Gordon happens to hear the Joker’s assumptions, he’ll have a lot of explaining to do. Even if it’s not far from the truth. “He’s not my—”

 

“Father?” the Joker says in a low voice.

 

Batman’s shoulders stiffen. “No.”

 

“So he screamed bloody murder at you to get back on the boat just for kicks?”

 

“He’s been working with me for years. He’s my friend,” Batman stresses. He doesn’t know why he even bothers explaining it to him, doubting the Joker understands that level of loyalty and friendship. “We watch each other’s backs.”

 

The Joker shakes his head, looking disappointed in him. “No, that’s not it, Bats,” he murmurs. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out for yourself.”

 

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Batman says through clenched teeth.

 

“No? You’ve been poor little orphaned Bruce Wayne for what?” Joker wrinkles his forehead in thought. “About twenty-seven, twenty-eight years?”

 

Batman breathes harshly through his nostrils. “Just because I was an orphan doesn’t mean.…” He has to stop and catch his breath, finding it difficult to finish his statement. Strange, since he’s never had a problem describing himself as an orphaned boy before. “Doesn’t mean I have an issue—”

 

“Uh huh,” Joker interrupts doubtfully. “And when you finally decided to make something of yourself, you chose a partner who would hold the most power over you as a vigilante, who was older than you by at least a decade. Jim Gordon.”

 

“He wasn’t the commissioner at that time,” Batman snaps, losing his patience.

 

“Then there’s something else about him, something else that connects you to him and him to you,” Joker muses softly, as if to himself. “It makes you think of him as your father, if only subconsciously. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Bruce Wayne has daddy issues, Bats. Anyone could see that a mile away or by reading the tabloids.”

 

Indignation floods Batman’s chest. He does not have that problem. Gordon doesn’t think of him like a son. For the sake of Gordon and his family, their safety, the commissioner can’t.

 

“That is _Wayne_ , Joker, not me,” Batman says.

 

“But it does take a genius like me to see that Jim Gordon is making the switch to ‘son,’ already, without saying it,” the Joker continues, as if he hadn’t heard him. “Now that he knows who you really are, he sees himself as an authority figure over you.”

 

Batman glares at him. “You’re just trying to provoke me.”

 

The Joker cocks his head. “No, I’m trying to understand why you’re so attached to him and his kids that you were willing to do something for them that you wouldn’t do for anyone else.”

 

“And what is that?” Batman says tightly.

 

“You didn’t tell Sandy and her buddies that you had a yacht,” Joker accuses him. “You say you want to save everyone at all costs yet you weren’t willing to risk your own boat, your identity, to get them out of Gotham. But you were for ol’ Gordo.”

 

Batman vaguely wonders if they really should be arguing about this now. The infected, the ones he killed, scream like banshees in his ears. He doesn’t think they’ll ever stop.

 

“There was no point in telling them I had a boat. They weren’t headed for the Yacht Club at that time, either. Gordon found out about Wa—” he stumbles, thinking twice about talking about himself in third person again and sounding like he’s a schizophrenic. “About my identity before I told him about the boat.”

 

“But you were planning to tell him,” Joker asserts. “You alluded to your boat when you said we would need to find a big boat. You, Mr. Wayne, were going to tell him.” He leans forward, punctuating each word. “I. Want. To. Know. _Why_.”

 

Batman forces himself to take a deep breath. He’s not sure that this, being on the same boat as the Joker, is worth the additional risk if he continues to analyze everything he says or does. He hasn’t had time to meditate, either, which is most likely the reason he’s on edge.

 

“Something feeds your desire for a father figure. What else are you hiding? What happened to you?” Joker asks.

 

What happened to him?

 

For a split second, Batman has the irrational thought that the Joker knows how, exactly, Ducard had trained him.

 

The Joker cocks his head. “I think it could explain why you’re so good at playing playboy billionaire Wayne. He is your other mask, after all. When are you just… _Bruce_?”

 

Batman tightens his hands around the wheel to keep himself from punching the Joker in the face. “Instead of psychoanalyzing me, which is a waste of your time, why don’t you find a way to placate him?” he warns the Joker. “Like watching our backs.”

 

“No offense to the Commish, but I think I prefer your brooding company over that scowling moustache of his,” the Joker complains. “I swear it’s staring at me, planning my obliteration.”

 

Batman pauses, the mental image of a frowning moustache on the commissioner humorous enough to break the tension. “I’m sure he’ll get over it, eventually,” he mutters, his eyes drifting over the bay.

 

“You are much more fun to be around,” the Joker says, smacking his lips. “I’ll just hang out and look from the top-uh,” he finishes, showing off his eerily familiar mannerisms for the first time in days. Now that he thinks about it, Joker’s slouching posture has been strangely absent, too.

 

Batman wonders, for the first time, if the tics and mannerisms aren’t essential to who the Joker or even side effects of medications, but intentional distractions. If they’re part of his mask, just like the Batman is for Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne for the man who had come home after seven long years trying to find himself. When he ponders it more, he decides it can’t be too much of a stretch. The Joker hasn’t always been the Joker. He’s no doubt reinvented himself before, which means that he’ll do it again.

 

But if they aren’t natural or side effects of medications, if they’re staged, Batman isn’t sure what to think. Is the Joker the Joker without them? He resembles a sane and rational if not exceptional oralist. A colleague, not a mental patient.

 

And, underneath, a skilled manipulator.

 

“If you say so,” Batman says.

 

“If only you could be this agreeable all the time,” the Joker says happily. “We would get along so well, Batsy.”

 

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

 

“To be fair, we’ve already worked well together,” the Joker points out. “Very recently, I might add, on more than one occasion.”

 

The air constricts around Batman as he catches on to the implications. As erotic as that experience had been, as perfect as it had felt, their adrenaline and passions running high, they’ve never discussed it since.

 

But it’s never far from his mind, and he’s pretty sure the Joker has been thinking about it, too.

 

Batman can’t keep his neck from heating underneath his cowl.

 

“You’re all tense around the chin, Bats. Get your mind out of the gutter,” the Joker says. “Jeez. Vigilantes, these days. I’m talking about your nose for danger meeting my penchant for chaos.”

 

“We had to work together for survival,” he says.

 

“You’ll find yourself in the thick of things again with me, Bats, even if you don’t mean to,” the Joker says easily. “I know you, because you are a lot like me. These things just _find_ us.”

 

A week ago, Batman would have denied he was anything like the Joker, but that was before he’d used a gun, before black and white became gray. The rules have changed, the laws irrevocably altered. It is kill or be killed. There is no other way to survive, and Batman has had no choice but to immerse himself in the killing.

 

Batman’s mouth tightens. His darkest side lurks in the background. It always has. He knows that. Knew that from the beginning. Unlike the Joker, Batman has been able to manipulate his for good. But, current circumstances being what they are, there are no guarantees that will always be the case, not when so many things have changed. A single act on behalf of a few can devastate the life of one person, and that one is no less valuable than the others. But the ties of loyalty are more important and stronger than ever, and Batman already knows what lengths he’ll go to save a handful of people.

 

It’s a crippling thought. If given the time and space, he may even wallow in it. He deserves to feel that pain. He’s brought it upon himself. He’d taken a _life_.

 

He wishes he’d been able to keep his identity a secret to avoid the guilt that accompanies being human in front of the very people he tries to help. To avoid the piteous looks Gordon will give him. To save himself from dealing with his demons and cracked places as a fallible, very human Bruce Wayne.

 

“But don’t let that get you down,” the Joker says, patting him on the shoulder. “At least you know that I understand, if no one else does. After you taste that danger, once you feel death right behind you, you can’t put it out of your mind. It’s the magnificent start of a craving, a chase, that you can’t resist. Case in point, when you went back for me.” He drops his hand and leans towards Batman, his eyes alive and narrowing on him. “Or was it for a different reason, Batsy, hmm?”

 

Batman drags his gaze away. “I went back for you because I didn’t want to let another man die.”

 

The Joker snorts. “It’s like a good friend once told me. ‘If you say so.’”

 

Batman backs off on the throttle, easing the boat into a leisurely pace. “Settle in for the ride,” he says. “Keep a watch out for unwanted guests. Don’t touch anything. Don’t do anything, and, most importantly, shut the hell up.”

 

The Joker grins. “What? No tea and crumpets?”

 

“You’re lucky to even be here,” Batman reminds him, annoyed that Joker has successfully distracted him. He can’t let it happen again. “That I went back to Arkham.”

 

“You don’t even know why you came back for those people, for me, do you? Well, one thing’s for sure,” the Joker says. “You, uh, really know how to make a guy feel welcome. Thanks for pulling out the red carpet just for me.”

 

The Joker pivots on his heel, peering out to look at the bay, when he suddenly freezes. He turns back around, his movements slow and disjointed, and narrows his eyes at Bruce. “What do you mean, ‘let another man die?’”

 

It was foolish to let that slip, even if a part of him wanted to.

 

Batman says nothing.

 

Joker shrugs. “Give me a day or two. I’ll get it out of you.”

 

“Not likely,” Batman mutters.

 

He has more important things to consider than his dead mentor. Their destination, for one. There are numerous islands along the coast but Batman isn’t planning to wait things out on any of them. He’d found a more suitable place, a cluster of uninhabited islands belonging to the Miagani of Gotham, more than thirty miles to the northeast. Batman has already plotted their course using the boat’s GPS. Although the satellites are still working, their accuracy will degrade over time without human interference and calibration.

 

Not that it matters. Batman can navigate perfectly well without it.

 

The Joker sinks unceremoniously to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall beside Batman. He’s close, not quite two feet away.

 

The Joker stretches his legs out and taps his shoes together like a little boy before looking up at Batman, his grin widening. “Oh, yes I will, and it’s going to be so much fun.”

 

Batman decides that the best thing to do for the sake his own sanity is ignore him for now and let him have the last word. He scans the horizon for the boats he wants to avoid, for anything else that looks even remotely suspicious. Anything to avoid locking eyes with the Joker, who watches him.

 

But then he realizes that somewhere between his conversation with the Joker and this very moment, his hands have steadied on the wheel.

 

______________

 

The next ten minutes pass without fanfare. Batman finds that he prefers the comfortable silence between them, the ease in which that they take to each other’s company, to being here alone. As he recalls their bantering, he’s no longer irritated by the Joker’s provocations. He can’t blame the Joker for being curious. He doesn’t want to dwell on it, but there could be some truth to what he said. Truth Batman is unwilling to divulge to anyone, let alone the Joker, but had the tables been turned, he would have pressed for details, too. Just not as vocally.

 

Soon, the indistinguishable shapes of the first islands nearest to the shore appear in the distance. He craves the ground under his feet and a path on which to walk without the infected chasing after him, but he doesn’t stop the boat. Most of the survivors with boats are migrating near land for the time being, a fact he’d learned by keeping a radio channel open. He won’t wait out the next few months anywhere near the coastline. He wouldn’t on his own and with the children on board, and the Joker, there’s no question that they need to find an island further away.

 

Eventually he’ll need to return to Gotham alone and gather more supplies, check the status of the city. Establishing a base closer to the coast would be more convenient, but the risk of coming across more infected while they wait things out is both unwise and dangerous. Logically thinking, they’ll face considerably less danger on the water than if they remain in Gotham. They are a party of five, a motley group, with two children for whom to provide. They have to take the chance far out into the bay.

 

He’d almost forgotten about the nature preserve, the Lost Miagani Islands. The islands had been the home to the ancient people of Gotham before they settled in what is now a terror-filled, infected city. Protected by the People of Miagani, the last members of the tribe, the preserve has been a sanctuary to wildlife and vegetation native to Gotham and its surrounding cities for over fifty years.

 

Rarely have the numbered, remaining members of the Miagani tribe given permission to outsiders to excavate there in the hopes of understanding their history and culture, that decision keeping with their mystical presence on the islands and in Gotham. The islands have been closed off entirely to the public in recent years to prevent illegal activities such as hunting and poaching. When Miagani officials had wanted to install a hidden outdoor security system from Wayne Enterprises to help prevent such intrusions, Bruce Wayne had made every effort to be at the meeting.

 

Batman is all but certain the island is uninhabited, except for its wildlife and the rumored ghosts that walk its beaches and cliffs. He’s survived, at length, in the wilderness before. He’ll have little to no trouble setting up camp and finding food for them. His greatest challenge will be living on the nature preserve with a psychopath and keeping Gordon and his kids alive at the same time—and his own sanity intact. He’s certain he’ll endure. For their sake, he has to.

 

He has the skills. He’s lived through hunger, he’s survived the harsh wilderness all on his own. He knows what to look for. There are resources on those islands, in the ground and on the trees, and Batman intends to find and use them to their advantage. He’s always been careful to tread lightly on native ground and doesn’t plan on stopping now. However, Gotham’s ancestors will have to understand that this isn’t about mocking ceremony, or hunting for sport, or frivolous trespassing, or government intrusion. This is survival.

 

But there are other factors to consider as they look for a temporary home, not just Batman’s refusal to jeopardize their lives for the sake of a shorter trip back to Gotham. The Joker’s presence complicates things even more, and Batman’s moral code, what’s left of it, prevents him from releasing the Joker from his care.

 

His conscience won’t let him kick the Joker off the boat. Neither will Gordon’s, apparently.

 

Although the Joker appears to have no intention of hurting any of them, finding, instead, strength in number, Batman won’t let his guard down based on a feeling. Even if that feeling is a strong instinct and directly correlates with the way the Joker remains at his side. He won’t give him the freedom or the opportunity to trail others who’ve escaped and possibly hurting or killing them. He can’t ‘let him go,’ and then expect the Joker not to return and hurt Gordon’s family in retaliation for a choice that Batman himself had made, either. He considers the consequences of every decision he makes, including this one. He has to remain alert, planning and preparing for what is ahead, more so when their future includes the Joker.

 

He will not be the catalyst to more of the Joker’s mayhem. Adding more people to the equation would only result in chaos.

 

And at the back of Batman’s mind, where his past in Crime Alley meets his present journey out of Gotham, is what he’s had to become and who he’ll have to remain to keep them all alive. Until that moment in the boat, he hadn’t thought of killing anyone, not since he’d tossed his gun into the river in his youth. Now he can’t picture his future without killing strokes, his decision to snuff out a life the turning point sending him down this darkened road of no return.

 

Lost in his sordid thoughts, Batman almost misses it, a desperate wail. It carries in the air, sending a shiver down his spine when it washes over him like a siren singing from the water. When the high-pitched keening continues, he turns his head to find where it’s coming from the same time the Joker staggers to his feet.

 

No more than one hundred yards away sits the small, wooded island he usually sails past when he’s on the yacht by himself. Three boats currently encircle it, one possibly empty and drifting back towards the shore. He hears shouting, a woman’s voice becoming increasingly louder. A gunshot rings through the air with startling clarity, then another. Someone—or something—splashes in the water.

 

Batman immediately adjusts their course, guiding the boat further north and away from the island. He doesn’t look back.

 

The Joker shifts beside him. “We’re not stopping?” he asks warily.

 

“No,” Batman says.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, Bats. I’m glad we’re avoiding it, whatever it is,” Joker says. “I’m just a little surprised we don’t have to tag along while you play hero.”

 

“You and the others are my priority now,” Batman says, and he feels no guilt in saying so.

 

“Let me get this straight. You, _Batman_ , are going to, uh, _ignore_ the fact that someone over there might be in trouble?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Huh.” The Joker looks at him in disbelief. “And so this is all part of your new, ‘save ourselves, screw the others’ mentality?”

 

Batman pauses. Although he doesn’t think of it quite like that, it’s not far from the truth. He sees no other way to ensure the safety of Gordon and his kids. Eventually, after he establishes as safe a place as possible for them to wait out the next several months, he’ll leave the island in search of other people he can help. He doesn’t think curing those who are already infected is even possible, not when the infected bodies rapidly degrade. But if he can get a blood sample from an infected and test it in his lab at Wayne Manor, he may be able to create an inoculation to prevent the virus from spreading.

 

“Yes,” he says decisively.

 

Joker looks out across the bay, his brow furrowing deeply. “You’ve changed.”

 

Batman waits for a victorious smile from the Joker, or his signature, manic laughter celebrating that the Batman’s priorities and morals have shifted. But the Joker stands there, his gaze averted, looking bothered by the idea.

 

And that…bothers _him_.

 

The knot in the pit of Batman’s stomach, which he’d thought had eased up, tightens. He doesn’t understand why this seems to have upset the Joker, of all people. “We all have,” he says.

 

“No,” the Joker says slowly. “You’ve really changed.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

The Joker looks at him, silent.

 

As tempting as it is to share a part of himself with someone who will listen without judgement, he thinks better of it and refrains. He’d rather not give the Joker more fodder to use against him, but he has Gordon’s kids to think about, too, who are huddled on the couch below. And Gordon, who is no doubt split between wanting to be with his kids and keeping watch.

 

Batman had caught a quick glimpse of the children awhile ago in the cameras. They’d been hardly aware of their surroundings. It’s not surprising that their thoughts have turned inward in their sorrow, but Batman can’t be sure that nothing will filter through. He fears that the children have been in shock all along. The last thing they need is to overhear the conversation he’s having with the Joker.

 

If Batman can lead the Joker on, give him bite-sized morsels of his past to feed his ego and this obsession he seems to have with the Bat, let him solve a few of Batman’s mysteries to keep him interested, thereby preventing him from killing anyone, he’ll do so without a guilty conscience.

 

A part of him wants the Joker to willingly stay with him. The same part of him that wants to get to know the man. The man under Joker’s mask. Who he was before.

 

Deep down, he knows he won’t be leading the Joker on at all. And how he’s gotten to this point in just a few short days confounds him until he starts questioning his own mental stability.

 

“Ask me about it later,” Batman says.

 

“Is that a promise?”

 

“I give you my word.”

 

The Joker grins. “If your word is as good as mine, I believe you.”

 

Batman thinks about that for a moment. It’s ridiculous coming from a master manipulator. Absolutely ridiculous. He smiles.

 

He starts to laugh.

 

The Joker looks amusedly at him. “It wasn’t meant to be funny. I can keep a promise.”

 

Batman snorts, muffling a laugh with a fist to his mouth. “If my word is as good as yours, then I guess we’re both liars.”

 

They stare at each other, the Joker unblinkingly, Batman barely keeping a straight face.

 

The Joker breaks into a wide grin. “You said it, not me.”

 

Batman smiles and shakes his head, his laughter dying down before returning to the wheel.

 

The comfortable silence that follows and the ease between them somehow reminds him of the children on board, and Batman strains to listen for Barbie and Jimmy. Now that the children are in the more familiar and safer environment of a boat, and have had a little time to process the trauma they’ve experienced, their faces say everything about the loss of their mother that they cannot. Batman intends to do all that he can to shield them from experiencing another horrifying chain of events.

 

A voice in his head says there’s no point trying to protect them when the world is falling apart, but he can’t lose sight of why he put on the mask. Why he kept it on, despite everything. He can’t lose all of his morals even if they’re slipping away, even if his gut feeling says he’ll constantly be learning how to survive in this new world.

 

He increases their speed, changing his mind about the travel time. It will cost them precious fuel but he’ll put as many miles between them and these other people as he can for at least an hour.

 

“We’ll keep looking until we’re absolutely sure we’re alone,” Batman explains when the Joker notices the adjustment.

 

“For how long?” The Joker leans sideways on the console, an elbow and forearm bearing his weight as he considers Batman.

 

It’s more than a casual glance, more than if they were friends chatting about their day. He doesn’t think he’d even mind talking with the Joker on that level, as long as he isn’t threatening the lives of the people he cares about. But talking with this much familiarity stirs something within him he hasn’t felt since... _Bhutan_.

 

“However long it takes,” Batman says, shaking away the memories he’d rather ignore.

 

If they continue to travel at their current pace, they’ll reach the Miagani Islands in a little over six hours. Four if he decides to get them there before nightfall. When he can hardly keep his eyes open, he thinks he’ll be contradicting himself sooner than later, shaving as much time as he can off their trip.

 

Batman keeps the ETA to himself. He can’t afford to look incompetent in front of the Joker or give him any reason to doubt his ability to lead them.

 

“I can handle that,” the Joker says. “If this isn’t as good or better than sharing a cell, I’m not sure what is. We have the unpredictable, deep waters of the bay at our fingertips, and the bloodthirsty infected at our backs.”

 

Batman pauses. “It is a step up.”

 

The Joker smiles.

 

Batman says nothing else, but he’s tempted to give the Joker a few more pointers on how to drive the yacht. A precaution in case something happens to him or Gordon. But for the next two hours, he navigates on his own, avoiding the clusters of people and boats that are closer to the shore, his dark form warding off anyone who looks their way in interest. Luckily, no one gets close enough to read the name of the yacht or recognize that it belongs to Bruce Wayne.

 

Sometimes the Joker drifts off to sleep or reads over his shoulder, occasionally asking him random questions about the Yacht Club, his suit, the advanced tech of the boat, or the satellite he used to locate the islands. He considers about keeping it to himself, but he decides against it and tells him that the accuracy of the satellite has most likely degraded. It will get them close enough to their destination no but in a year or two, however, they’ll be at least a mile off course.

 

He’s a man of few words to begin with as Batman, and he won’t waste energy by talking. The strain of the escape and his recent decisions wear on him. Still, he intends to keep the Joker’s attention on either him—Batman—or their destination. In doing so, Gordon and his children will have time to themselves below without the intrusion of a psychopath. Surprisingly, Batman finds himself growing to appreciate the Joker’s periodic queries and snarky remarks when they keep him awake.

 

Batman suspects that the Joker’s increasing interest in him directly correlates with the discovery of who he really is. The part of him that is the man underneath the mask is content with this knowledge, bordering on looking forward to someone _knowing_ him. The other part of him, the Batman, can’t dwell on this budding attachment he has with the Joker while other people are depending upon him to survive. He’ll have to learn how to balance the two.

 

_______

 

Sometime nearing the third hour, Batman begins to lose focus, the exhaustion that has settled in his bones sinking impossibly deep in the marrow like a sickness. It’s unwelcome yet familiar, like the fatigue that hits him when he goes into a fight short on sleep and fuel, his body worn and self-preservation kicking in gear.

 

“Bats.”

 

It’s not the first time the Joker has said his name in the past few minutes. Batman listens to him with his eyes closed, the voice ebbing and flowing at his ear like a wave crashing into the shore only to be dragged back into the bay. He leans into the gentle puffs of air along his neck, trying to recall what he’d just been telling Joker about the island but decides it doesn’t matter when it’s so peaceful.

 

The boat sways beneath his feet, the incessant rocking soothing him into a half-smile. If he thinks about the water hard enough, slowing his autonomic responses, he can almost believe this is just any other excursion on his yacht.

 

“Batsy, I, uh, think you better pay a little more attention to what you’re doing.”

 

The inflections of Joker’s voice are as hypnotizing and unpredictable as the waves crashing against the Sea Spirit. “Yes?”

 

“You’re doing it again,” the Joker says in a sing-song voice by his ear.

 

“Doing what?” Batman pries his eyes open. The stretch of open water outside the window comes in focus, reminding him of the infected and quickly destroying what little inner peace he’d had left.

 

“Closing your eyes.”

 

“Hmmm,” Batman says. “That I am. S’nice. Was nice. Until you bothered me.”

 

“And this when you’re not even drunk,” the Joker mutters.

 

Batman grunts in agreement. “Oh, you’ll know when that happens.”

 

“Is that an invitation?” the Joker purrs.

 

The question makes him pause. Had he meant it like that? He isn’t sure. “Maybe.”

 

Joker laughs. “I think you need a break, Bats.”

 

Batman looks down at the console, mouth tight. They have several more hours of traveling left. “No.”

 

“Then it looks like I’ll have to step in and turn this boat around. We’ll go back to Gotham and the infected. And it’ll be all your fault—”

 

Batman’s eyes snap up to Joker’s unsmiling face. “That’s suicide, Joker.”

 

“Exactly.” Joker nods. “I _will_ turn this boat around if you can’t reason with me here.”

 

He wouldn’t do that, would he? He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “Reason? That’s my line.”

 

“Not at the moment, it isn’t. Bats, you’re done.”

 

Batman squints at him. “Not done, Joker.”

 

The Joker chuckles. “You’re really cute when you’re not all here, Bats.”

 

Offended, Batman curls his lips into a snarl. Cute? The Joker has to be kidding. “I’m here,” he says tersely.

 

He lifts a hand and viciously kneads his forehead. If only he could wake up from this nightmare. He’s exhausted. Overthinking every decision. In shock that the Joker is on his yacht and hasn’t killed them yet.

 

“Prove it.” Joker grasps Batman’s other hand, pulling it off the wheel far too easily than he should have been able to.

 

“I don’t need to,” he says. “Let go of me.”

 

“No.” Joker leans in, peering into his eyes. “Let me or Gordon take over.”

 

“I just need a minute.”

 

“You need longer than that,” the Joker counters.

 

Batman attempts to pull his hand away but the Joker is stronger than he expected. “Two minutes, then.”

 

The Joker fails to see the humor in his reply, his eyes hardening, jaw locking stubbornly. For a moment, the Joker is the dangerous man Batman fought nail and tooth with in Gotham.

 

“Don’t be foolish, Bats,” the Joker hisses, his fingers digging painfully into the hollow of Batman’s wrist and forcing him to pay attention. “Take my advice. You’re not going to be in any shape to fight if we run into trouble. And I’m not sure I want to face things alone. It’s not just your life on the line here, or Gordon’s and his brats.”

 

The Joker is right but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. Knowing better than to waste his time and energy arguing with the man, especially when taking a break means more risks, Batman eventually agrees. “I’ll get Gordon,” he says.

 

He’s been trained to push his limits and overcome the worst of obstacles, but this is the first time the added psychological strain has pushed him over the edge. Having someone force him to take a break lessens his guilt, in a way. He should be thanking the Joker.

 

The Joker lets go of him. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it? See, Bats? We can get along.”

 

“In this case, I’ll make an exception,” Batman says.

 

He takes one last look at the bay ahead and, seeing nothing but water, stops the boat. Pushing away from the wheel, the touch of the Joker’s fingers ghost around his wrist. His fingers curl and uncurl. He wants to trace where the Joker had held him but catches himself at the last second. He thinks of the endless rain and kissing Joker and not sleeping when he should have.

 

His mind is thick with what he’s done and fear that Alfred wasn’t able to land in a safe place. He worries that Alfred will never forgive him for what he’s done. He’s killed and murdered in the name of survival.

 

He doesn’t think he can forgive himself.

 

It is too much, but the Joker is beside him. Batman has to keep them all alive and the Joker from harming Gordon and his kids. He vows to do whatever it takes. Batman, after all, has no limits. He’s beginning to think that Bruce Wayne can’t have them either, not if he wants to survive.

 

It’s sweltering beneath his mask and cowl, increasingly so as they sail away from Gotham. Batman doesn’t want to remove them—who knows what they will come across next in the water—but the unforgiving material rubs uncomfortably against his sore skin. He doesn’t want the added annoyance of blisters, and it’s no longer necessary to wear the mask and cowl. He’s kept it on, a warning for those who see them from afar to stay away, and it’s worked, so far. But there is no other boat in sight now, they’re further away from the shore then the other survivors care to be, and Gordon and the Joker already know who he is beneath the mask.

 

Batman’s choice made up for him, he removes the mask and cowl. The wind is cool across Bruce’s face. He runs both hands through his flattened hair, attempting to fix it.

 

Joker watches him with a slow-burning smile, its embers alighting like they had at the first reveal. “There you are. Bruce Wayne.”

 

“I’ve always been here, Joker,” Bruce says.

 

“Not like this, you haven’t,” the Joker counters. “Not this human.”

 

Bruce is too tired to deal with this. “Look. I’m going to have to get a couple of hours of sleep,” he says. If the Joker argues with him about sticking close to him, he’ll have to knock him out somehow. Most likely resorting to punching his lights out since there are no handcuffs on board. “I know you’ve napped some, but I suggest that you get some shuteye , too. You might as well, since you’ll be stuck with me for the duration. We’ll be taking the first shift once we reach the island.”

 

Under no circumstances is he leaving the Joker alone with Gordon and his kids, especially in the dark.

 

“First, we sleep. Then, we play guard, _together_. I’m in!” The Joker’s grin is feral. “Or you’re in. Whichever you prefer, Batsy.”

 

Although the innuendos are grossly inappropriate, and it takes all of his control to ignore them, Bruce is relieved that the Joker is so agreeable. “No games, Joker,” he warns.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a batarang in my eye,” the Joker says, drawing an ‘x’ on his chest with his index finger.

 

Bruce, being reminded that his equipment is in Gotham and untouchable, glares at him.

 

“Besides, you still have a little bit of the Bat on your face, even without the mask,” the Joker adds. “Like you’ll take my head off if I look at you funny.”

 

“Better not tempt me then,” Bruce says, holding onto the railing.

 

If he doesn’t sit down and have something to eat soon he’ll crash. He needs space to think, to plan, to prepare...and all he has is forty feet. He takes off his gloves and squints down at Gordon, who must have noticed the boat stopping because he’s at the bottom of the ladder, looking up at him with concern.

 

“You said something about getting some shut-eye?” Gordon asks, making Bruce wonder how much, exactly, he’d heard. “I’d say it’s about time. You lasted longer than I thought you would.”

 

“I’ll be right down,” Bruce says.

 

He grips the railing. He’s about to step down when he sees the children. The bag of bread in their hands. He freezes, remembering the other food.

 

How could he have forgotten something so essential? So simple? Given the fact that he’d hardly heard Gordon and his kids moving around while he was in the cockpit, Bruce doubts they took the initiative and dug through his shelves on their own. Bruce has failed them already.

 

He begins climbing down the ladder. They’ll have to take an inventory of their supplies and begin rationing the food immediately. He’s doubtful that the others are aware of the minimum they’ll have to eat each day to help ward off the inevitable vitamin deficiencies that are ahead. He does, having lived on next to nothing for months in southeast Asia. He doubts the others can eat much less and still continue to thrive but he can. Quite possibly the Joker, too.

 

Bruce can scavenger and hunt on the island using a bow and arrow he’s fashioned himself, utilizing the skills he’d learned in the mountains. One of the locked benches always holds two fishing rods, Alfred’s joy and Bruce’s bane. He’s never liked fishing but humors Alfred on their trips. Another bench holds an axe. Still another, in a hidden compartment, random equipment of the Bat’s. At least the rope will come in handy. But after factoring in the infected in the water and the complexities of the food chain, they can’t be certain that boiling or cooking will sufficiently purge the virus from potential food. It’s possible those methods will work, but until he can find a lab to test that theory, their food sources will be limited.

 

The keys to the cupboards below in hand, he makes his way down the ladder with nothing less than great effort to keep himself from falling.

 

“Follow me,” he says to Gordon once he’s reached the bottom. By now, it’s clear the Joker follows him by default, and he doesn’t give him any instruction.

 

He unlocks two of the cupboards, and stands there in mild shock. They are crammed with canned and jarred food and dry goods.

 

Green beans, grown in Alfred’s garden, have always his favorite and there are at least six jars stacked on the shelf, next to several cans of potatoes. The potatoes he’d always liked as a kid but Alfred never let him eat except for special occasions. There are other homegrown vegetables in jars, and a dozen cans of fruit, including peaches and mandarin oranges. His mouth starts to water.

 

He narrows in on an unopened jar of applesauce, his mouth salivating more when he reads the label. Made with cinnamon. It’s the sweet applesauce Alfred buys only on special occasions because once Bruce starts eating sugar on days he’s not fighting crime into the middle of the night, it’s hard for him to stop. It’s not unusual for him to devour the entire container of applesauce in one sitting. Vegetables, too. He burns through thousands of calories as a vigilante, his workouts demanding he consume the same amount of calories on off days.

 

It is a little known fact that Bruce Wayne eats constantly behind closed doors, which accounts for the full cupboards currently on the yacht.

 

He’s eaten only intermittently since the virus spread nearly a week ago, grabbing what he could find that had been left behind. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he’s gone without food for forty-eight hours. Since he killed Ben, everything has gotten increasingly hazy and his hands have started shaking more, even without a gun in his hand. He has no idea when Gordon and his family last ate. They haven’t had the time, or maybe even the will, to break open the bread until now and the bag is still full. He doesn’t know when the Joker ate last, either, but he thinks it could have been at the house, before they’d made a run for it. How they all made it here, safely and on this boat, is beyond him.

 

The container of rice is half full but it’s possible that it will last two weeks between the five of them if they’re careful. But they’ll have to use a portion of the water to cook it, and he doesn’t know if that is in their best interest. If it rains again, they can collect more water and use that, since the yacht is equipped with a purifier. There is other food, but he stops taking a mental inventory.

 

Their future looks promising, if they can keep their heads on straight. Something has actually gone right. “Good,” he says, relieved. “You and the kids can have something more substantial to eat than bread tonight.”

 

“You didn’t know the kitchen was this well-stocked, did you?” Gordon asks, pulling out a drawer.

 

The can opener is there, at least, and a few other utensils, including three knives of varying sizes. Bruce swipes the knives before the Joker gets any ideas, and, after giving one of them to Gordon, tucks the rest inside his belt. “Alfred must have been here recently,” he says without thinking.

 

“Alfred?” the Joker echoes.

 

He opens his mouth to explain that Alfred is his butler, but something else crowds his thoughts, demanding his attention. The facts are falling into place whether he wants them to or not.

 

Alfred has been here, making special trips to fill the shelves, and filling them for a reason.

 

Alfred has been _here_ , behind Bruce’s _back_ , and the why is so obvious, yet each year Bruce conveniently forgets the why. Selective memory, Alfred calls it. A skill Bruce has mastered until now.

 

His face crumbles before he can school his features.

 

“What’s wrong, Mr. Wayne?” Jimmy asks.

 

He’s nearly undone by the innocence in the boy’s voice, but Bruce has been hardened very recently, _has become a killer_. He fits the Batman mask over his face again, if only figuratively. But that mask is tainted, now, too.

 

Alfred has been here, because it’s October.

 

 _October_.

 

“Nothing’s wrong, Jimmy,” Bruce says, but it’s impossible to hear anything above the roaring in his ears, even his own lie.

 

He doesn’t want to acknowledge there is more in the pantry but he’s stronger than this. His eyes fall on the contents of the other shelf to see if the other pieces fit. It’s no surprise when they do. Unopened bags of flour, salt, and two kinds of sugar and an assortment of spices lining the shelf remind him of the life he’s lost. The life he wants to forget. The one that’s been left behind for good.

 

Alfred prefers baking from scratch. Bruce can’t recall the last time Alfred even bothered with a mix.

 

If Bruce had known all the trouble Alfred was going to, he would have refused to celebrate. Tried to change Alfred’s mind. Offered to take them both out to dinner. Which, of course, is exactly why Alfred had gone behind his back.

 

He wishes he’d kept his mouth shut about his boat.

 

“You have a working oven,” Gordon is saying with far too much wonder and curiosity than Bruce can handle. Even the kids look interested.

 

Barbie’s eyes light up. “We can bake a cake so we don’t go hungry,” she says.

 

Gordon smiles at her. “If these shelves are stocked so well, I imagine the refrigerator is, too. You would need milk and eggs, at the very least. I’ll look.”

 

Bruce remembers taking the yacht out for the first time. Alfred being pleased with himself that he cooked a three-course meal in such a tiny kitchen. Bruce trying to help but inevitably getting in the way and finally just reading aloud to Alfred, instead.

 

As Bruce blinks away unshed tears, Gordon reaches for the refrigerator handle.

 

Bruce’s heart jumps to his throat. “No,” he rasps.

 

He slams the cupboard doors shut before Gordon can touch them, using far more force than is necessary

 

The children jump at the harsh sound. Gordon freezes, both brows shooting up to his hairline.

 

“Don’t. Touch. _Anything_ ,” Bruce orders.

 

The Joker inches towards Bruce, an odd look on his face. Bruce wishes he could kick Joker off the boat and deal with his demons without the other man analyzing Bruce like he’s a specimen under a piece of glass.

 

And once he deals with his demons, then he’ll let the Joker back on the yacht.

 

He belatedly realizes that one of the kids has begun to cry and flinches. Could things get any worse? He’d actually made a child—Jimmy—break out in tears.

 

Joker eyes the boy, then looks at Bruce with one raised brow. “Not to rub salt on an open wound or anything, Bats, but this has not been your week.”

 

Apparently they can.

 

Bruce ignores him and squats down in front of Jimmy because he has to fix this before he strangles the Joker. “Hey,” he says, looking earnestly at the boy. Jimmy’s eyes are watery but he stares back at Bruce. It’s a good sign, he thinks. “I’m sorry, buddy. I—”

 

But Gordon raises a hand, silencing him. “It’s okay, Mr. Wayne—”

 

“Call me Bruce.”

 

Gordon hesitates. “Bruce. We’re all a little off right now.”

 

“It’s not okay,” he says, hoping his expression isn’t as raw and exposing as he thinks it is.

 

Gordon’s children have recently lost their mother and here he is, a grown adult, bending under the grief he’s experienced before, dallying in what-ifs. It is far from being okay.

 

Jimmy sniffs and hides his face in his father’s leg as if to prove Bruce’s point.

 

Gordon affectionately ruffles Jimmy’s hair. “He’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “He knows you didn’t mean to upset him. I think we can all see that this is important to you.”

 

Joker narrows in on Bruce as if trying to figure him out.

 

“Open a can to feed you and the kids, but please don’t touch anything else.” Bruce tilts his head back to look up into the sky and imagines the jet, and Alfred, spirited away by his obsession to keep his family safe. “Not...yet.”

 

“We won’t touch the rest,” Gordon says so softly that Bruce has to look at him to see if he’d spoken at all. “I promise we’ll wait for your word,” he adds.

 

Gordon watches Bruce with the practiced eye of a cop. The same cop who could make Batman squirm under his perusal. The same cop who cared for a small, orphaned boy at the police station.

 

The hurts, both the old and the new, stab him in the heart. He can’t make sense of why he’s reacting so harshly. His shoulders want to sag under the weight of his new reality, in which he is no longer in control, but he’s never surrendered to defeat as Batman, and he won’t now. He rolls them back decisively.

 

Alfred’s life is out of his hands, much like every single life on this yacht is out of his hands as much as he thinks they are. He can tell himself he’s in control, but times have changed. In fact, everything has changed. The quicker he accepts it, the better it will be.

 

Bruce thinks Gordon and the kids will return to the bench, but the older man stands there with a determined look on his face.

 

He’s reminded again of Alfred. It’s heartache he can’t shake off his chest.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Gordon says. “It might help.”

 

“We’ll look at supplies later,” he deflects, grateful that no one has caught on yet as to why these things are here.

 

But Gordon is a detective and the Joker is a smart man, too. It may not be too long before they do catch on, especially now that he’s avoiding the commissioner’s questions.

 

“Bruce,” Gordon probes, and Bruce can tell that he won’t let this go.

 

He’s being backed into a corner.

 

He hates that with every turn, he’s forced to expose what’s left of himself to the very people from whom he’s fought the most to hide his true self. He doesn’t want to apologize, though he knows he should, because an apology will strip away the remaining layers of his mask.

 

He flexes his hands at his sides. “We don’t have time,” he says flatly. “It isn’t safe for all of us to be right here, without someone driving the boat. Let’s find ground first.”

 

Gordon pins him with a look of pity that he can’t bear to have directed at him, and even Batman is defenseless to it. “I care about him, too, but I know he was your guardian.”

 

Joker’s eyes flicker with interest.

 

“He has been everything to you,” Gordon continues quietly. “Not just your butler, but your father. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s probably taught you a hell of a lot.”

 

Of course Gordon knows Alfred, perhaps even fairly well, if this is any indication.

 

“Wayne Manor could never take the S.A.S. out of Alfred,” Bruce says, thinking fondly on the many times his guardian helped Batman out of tight spots.

 

“Well, that explains a lot,” the Joker mutters.

 

“Son.” Gordon’s voice is firm, demanding answers like a father would.

 

Bruce feels his face drain of color. He turns his head, locking eyes with the Joker and expecting to see a smug smile. The Joker’s blank expression tells him nothing. He’s calm. Detached. Unaffected. Everything Bruce wants to be in that moment.

 

And how he envies him for it.

 

Resignation suffocates him as he accepts that the Joker may be right about the burgeoning father-son connection Bruce has with Gordon. And that, in turn, reveals a great deal about Bruce the Joker can manipulate and use to his advantage. And an armory to use against Gordon.

 

“Did Mr. Pennyworth…?” Gordon asks, the end of his question strangely missing. For Bruce’s sake, no doubt.

 

But he’s had about enough of being careful. And he’s no one’s son.

 

He’s nobody’s son, but the longing to be one remains. Growing up as an orphan, vainly spending his entire life looking to other people for what he never had, how could it not?

 

If Alfred is gone in any capacity, Bruce isn’t sure he won’t go down that rabbit trail with Gordon, attaching himself to him like a limpet like he’d done with Ducard but without the sex. And if he does, if he presents himself as a needy adult child with the emotionally maturity of a stunted teenager, if he can’t control his desire for a father figure in his life, if he seeks confirmation from Gordon or raises his expectations—it’s possible it will destroy a partnership. It’s possible the Joker will see how broken he really is and what lengths Bruce has gone to to hide it.

 

“Son,” Gordon begins again, starting towards him.

 

Bruce inhales sharply, taking a step backward and putting space between them. Without his mask he has no emotional separation from the heartache.

 

It’s a mistake. Gordon halts in his tracks, concern etched in his features.

 

“I don’t…” Bruce says, faltering with uncertainty. “I don’t know,” he finishes, clenching his teeth until pain richochetes throughout his jaw.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Gordon says.

 

Joker inches towards Bruce. He notices the action, even if Gordon doesn’t. He’s not even sure why the Joker does it, but it’s strangely comforting.

 

He can’t let Gordon’s questions or Alfred’s absence get to him but they do, all too easily. He needs a moment to pull himself together but he doesn’t have one to spare. He doesn’t have to explain anything to anyone, but he feels obligated to tell Gordon the truth since his children are currently witnessing Bruce’s breakdown, for he has no other word to describe what is happening to him than that. If he were in his right mind, operating on sleep instead of sheer will, he’d be handling this much differently.

 

Instead, pieces of his heart continue to break, and he is helpless to stop it.

 

If he’d only kept his mask on, he could have avoided this scenario altogether. Maintaining a cool detachment from the life that Bruce Wayne lives, even though his identity is no longer a secret. But it’s too late now.

 

He senses their stares, the Joker’s most of all, and relies on past mental training to pull himself up by the bootstraps. “He wouldn’t leave without me. I sedated him and sent him away on my jet,” he says evenly, and it sounds somewhat harsh even to him, like a report he gives Gordon on the rooftop.

 

Gordon’s eyes widen in both horror and relief, and maybe more than a little shock that Bruce is an absolute control freak underneath the black suit. “He won’t be happy when he wakes up and discovers what you did.”

 

“That wasn’t my priority. He’ll understand.” Bruce hopes.

 

“You haven’t heard from him since, I take it,” Gordon assumes.

 

There is limited cell phone service, in most cases none, but with no one left to work the towers and people simply trying to stay alive what little service is left won’t last.

 

“No,” Bruce says. “I don’t have a phone even if I could call him.” He’d lost it while escaping from the infected the second day.

 

“If your butler is anything like you,” Gordon begins, the unspoken question causing Bruce to put up his guard, “he’ll be alright.”

 

“If they were able to make it to Florida and refuel at the airport there, maybe.” He’d given the pilot explicit instructions to take Alfred to South America and an island Bruce owns and, if that wasn’t possible, to turn around and head for England without looking back. Alfred has connections there and, with any luck, they’ll be able to land. But the news that the virus spread so quickly across the country causes him some alarm.

 

“So, uh, if your...uh... _butler_ , doesn’t make it, would you mind if I applied for the job?” Joker asks. “I _love_ the work benefits you provide. Would come in handy when the next apocalypse comes along.”

 

“Unbelievable,” Bruce mutters. But, really, what else should he expect from a man like the Joker?

 

“I take it that’s a yes,” the Joker says. “Too bad. I’m rather good at opening doors. _Prison_ doors are my specialty.”

 

“Joker,” Bruce snaps, his revert back to the Bat covering up the faint snort that comes from Gordon’s daughter, of all people. He makes a mental note to closely observe the kids’ behavior around the Joker. This is far from being an acceptable situation when the children’s mental health is at stake.

 

Joker raises his hands in surrender. When it appears authentic, not the mocking gesture he’d expect from him, Bruce feels guilty for snapping at him. The joke had been in poor taste but it hadn’t actually hurt anyone.

 

Bruce’s ongoing, internal war since he killed that man has drained him of whatever energy he has left, and maybe his good sense. This is the only explanation. Maybe it snatched up some of his brain cells, too. He doesn’t have it in him to fight, not now. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to contend with the Joker, his mind too weary to comprehend that he is on a yacht with both a psychopath and children at the same time. He doesn’t care if the Joker is disappointed by his sudden lack of spirit and steps away with the intention of removing his cape.

 

He slips his gloves back on to protect himself while he handles the liquid fabric, bunches the cape in his hand, and makes a mental note to take a sample of blood from it later, away from the children. He rolls the cape so the filth is on the inside. Eventually he’ll have to clean the cape with what water there is to use in the narrow shower stall, but cleaning the suit takes priority. For now, he’ll have to find a place to store it.

 

It’s imperative that he washes his suit before he sits down but he can’t remove it with Gordon and the children around. He doesn’t think he cares if it doesn’t get done before he collapses, although there are several pairs of clothing in the locked closet he can change into.

 

He needs to guard Gordon’s family. Watch over the Joker. Sleep. Know that Alfred is okay. Scrub his skin clean of the filth of a decaying city. Rid his mind of the memory of the gun he’d fired, but he knows, deep down, he’ll never be able to erase its imprint on his hand.

 

He needs to do whatever he can to think clearly, but he does the exact opposite. He looks back at the Joker, who still resembles a drenched rat, his eyes sunken, and his leg—

 

Bruce kicks himself and scowls at the blood seeping through Joker’s bandage.

 

“I forgot,” he says. How could he have been so stupid? He’d put the Joker at risk for an infection by forgetting about the wound. How had he not seen it when they’d been in the cockpit? “I’m sorry.”

 

That this is his second apology in the course of minutes isn’t lost on him.

 

The Joker cocks his head, and Bruce waits a beat, expecting sarcasm. The Joker says nothing.

 

Bruce isn’t sure what to think except that it’s a possibly a break from Joker-like things, a choice the man had made himself. And, if it is, he’s reading Bruce’s mind. Or, the more ridiculous notion, he’s grown to know Bruce far too well in a matter of days.

 

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. He needs to get some shut-eye before he hallucinates something else, like the Joker cooking a poison-free meal for them out of the goodness of his heart. Or the less creepy, normal mental image he has of the Joker in the kitchen preparing a meal for them and actually poisoning it.

 

“I have several pairs of clothing in the bedroom, too,” he says to the Joker. He turns towards the bedroom. “They’ll be a little big on you but they’ll be better than what you’ve got on now.”

 

The Joker follows him and brushes against Bruce’s shoulder as he limps past him through the door. As Bruce grabs the doorframe to catch his balance, an awareness passes between them that is familiar but that he is too weary to analyze.

 

Before he closes the door, he sees Gordon waiting by the ladder. The commissioner looks uneasily at the Joker, then studies Bruce with the same fatherly concern as before—and something else. For once, Bruce can’t read him like Batman always had in the past.

 

It is then that he realizes Gordon must suspect that he is involved with the Joker on some level. If Gordon asks him about it, he’s not sure he’ll be able to maintain the necessary poker face in front of the commissioner. And that, ironically, is the Joker’s own fault and what he’d thrown back in his face. His daddy issues.

 

He silently curses and hopes that the Joker doesn’t do or say something that exacerbates the problem.

 

The kids are behind Gordon. Barbie gathers Jimmy in her arms and tucking his head underneath her chin. She may be older than Bruce had first thought. A teenager, on the cusp of womanhood. She isn’t the little girl he remembers or sees in his nightmares when he’s too slow and fails to save them from Harvey. She’s older, with an intelligence in her eyes that he’d missed before.

 

Bruce’s stupidity is denying them a decent meal. “Gordon, please find something to eat.” He swallows, knowing he’s begging for mercy he doesn’t deserve. “But without...me around.”

 

Gordon‘s eyes hold no condemnation, only assurance. “We have bread. It’s fine for us tonight.”

 

Bruce shakes his head. “Please, Jim. I won’t feel right otherwise.”

 

Gordon slowly nods. “Alright.”

 

“Don’t wait for us. We won’t be out for a little while. He’ll need help getting cleaned up without putting himself at risk,” Bruce explains hoarsely, not unlike the Bat, and definitely unintentionally. He’s not at his peak. He knows he’s pushed himself too far this time, and it shows. Gordon owes him no favors, but he’s grateful the older man no longer presses him about Alfred—or anyone else. “I’ve preset the autopilot to guide you there.”

 

“Where are we headed, exactly?” Gordon asks.

 

“The Miagani Islands.”

 

Gordon seems surprised but agreeable to the idea. “They’re a bit of a ways northeast of us, aren’t they?”

 

Bruce nods. “I don’t trust anyone at this point, and people will want to stay near the coast. I don’t,” he says. “Things are getting desperate out there, and with the food with we have in our possession and the kids…” And the Joker, he thinks to himself. “We’re better off on our own, avoiding any other boats for now.”

 

“Agreed,” Gordon says. “I trust you.”

 

“And I, you.”

 

When Gordon tips his head in acknowledgment, Bruce is relieved that he seems to accept his unspoken apology, that he isn’t facing judgement for things he’s done. He’s grateful that they’ve been a team all along. Gordon knows the way Bruce—Batman—thinks and works.

 

“We’ll be in the cockpit,” Gordon says and urges his children up the ladder before him.

 

 

____________

 

As soon as they disappear overhead, Bruce closes the bedroom door, locking it. For being on a forty-foot yacht, the bedroom is fairly spacious, even with additional hidden drawers and closets Bruce himself had installed. The custom shower is built for two, with soundproof walls, as is the bedroom. He’s had a playboy reputation to uphold even on a boat. Especially on a boat. But the room shrinks with the Joker in the room. When it’s just _them_.

 

Joker shucks off his pants and shirt in a hasty manner that is amusing until Bruce realizes the the other man has every right to want to get rid of clothing that has been through hell and back.

 

Nobody deserves to be reminded of the horror and destruction they’ve lived through the last week. But then again, this is the Joker. Despite the world nearly ending, he has to assume the Joker thrives on this chaos. But why is the Joker in such a hurry to get undressed if he isn’t bothered by it?

 

He’s discovering the Joker is a man of many contradictions. Bruce thinks he has just as many.

 

Bruce will have to shed the Bat’s suit with more care than with what the Joker removes his clothing. He takes off his belt and the knives first, making sure to put them in one of the drawers that requires a code to open. He doesn’t close it yet, or take off his armor. He has one more weapon to lock up.

 

The confrontation won’t go well. He’s been delaying it since they’d gotten into the boat, watching the Joker and waiting for the right moment. But he can’t avoid it anymore.

 

Bruce looks at the Joker, who stands there in all his naked glory, and says calmly to him, “I need that other knife now.”

 

The Joker laughs. “That,” he says, pointing at the drawer, “will not keep me from getting it back. Besides, I need it to protect myself from anyone who tries to kill _me_.”

 

The Joker is right, but Bruce had expected that reaction.

 

“Keep it for now, but we need to talk about Gordon and his kids,” Bruce says flatly, walking over to the Joker.

 

He invades the Joker’s personal space, and although the the thinner man is a hair taller than he is, his armored, sculpted body cast shadows on every inch of the Joker’s nakedness. He hadn’t planned on doing this now of all times, but the Bat has bled through.

 

The Joker’s smile fades. His gaze shifts from Bruce’s face to the armor stretching across his shoulders and chest. He shudders. “Yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at Bruce. “What about them, Bats?”

 

“If you so much as harm one hair on their bodies,” Bruce says coldly, “I will hunt you down, and I will _kill_ you.”

 

“Oh. Oh _that_.” The Joker blinks. “I know.”

 

Bruce moves in closer until his armor brushes against the Joker’s skin, painting the other man’s pale skin with what dried blood is left on his suit. If Joker had had a cut there, chances are Bruce had just infected him. The Joker doesn’t have an open wound on his shoulders or arms, but it must feel just as threatening because the Joker leans away from him, the hair on his arms raising like he’s chilled.

 

“I don’t think you do,” Bruce says softly, his lips twisting into a cruel smile that he hopes is as menacing as the Joker’s worst. “I don’t think you do at all. I wonder how satisfying it will feel to torture you before I end your life. I may even use the techniques I learned when I was in prison.”

 

The Joker’s eyes widen a fraction. “You were in prison?”

 

“Bhutan. That was a very long year for me.”

 

The Joker looks stunned. But only at first. “You never told me,” he accuses.

 

Bruce lets out a chagrined huff, amazed that the Joker is upset, maybe even hurt, that he’d kept that detail a secret from him.

 

“And when would I have ever had the chance?” Bruce mocks. He doesn’t wait for an answer but leans in until he’s mere inches away from the Joker’s face, and speaks softly. “The guards there prefer starving their prisoners over feeding them, their bodies whittling down to nothing, every fragile bone in their hands and feet broken. Too weak and helpless to stop the rats from chewing on the flesh and the hair on their faces. And when their faces become unrecognizable, that’s when the fire ants find every crevice of their bodies that they can slip into and _bite_. Have you ever heard a man scream while he’s hopelessly scrabbling at the ants in his ears?”

 

The Joker looks at him in expectation. He slowly shakes his head as if in afterthought.

 

Bruce’s smile widens at the captivated expression on the Joker’s face. “I haven’t, no one has, because by then he’s chewed off his own tongue in his agony and the guards have thrown it to the rest of the prisoners to eat,” he hisses. “They chase after it like dogs. Now, that, I’ve seen. The strongest ones survive and cook the prize over a fire to eat. Some would say the scent of it is tantalizing. I know I did, my mouth watering at the mere thought of warm food, but I preferred eating the rats over human tongue.”

 

The Joker’s mouth drops open. He closes it and searches his face. “I can see it in your eyes, Brucie boy,” he says, voice shaking. “Even without your mask.”

 

Whether the Joker’s voice is trembling from fear or excitement, Bruce isn’t sure. Until he looks down and happens to notice the man’s arousal, rubbing Kevlar.

 

Whatever repulsion he feels is buried by the guilt slamming into Bruce’s conscience. He physically reels from the sensation and fights the urge to step back from him.

 

Although everything he’d said was true, maybe he’d taken things a bit too far. This isn’t the impression he’d intended to make. He’ll have to be careful and never do it again, now that he knows what will turn the Joker on. It’s an abuse of power. He’ll do many things to keep Gordon and his family safe, but he won’t cross that line. He won’t manipulate the Joker sexually by suggestion.

 

The Joker’s eyes glaze over. “And it’s never been there before, but it is now,” he whispers.

 

And there is a good reason for that. A reason that is either at the bottom of the river, or floating downstream and out of Gotham.

 

It infuriates Bruce, but he’s angry at himself and for far more than just that. He’s always been able to separate his experiences in prison from his life as Bruce. Not Wayne, but _Bruce_. Now he’s being forced to combine the two, twisting himself into something that is even darker than he’d ever intended Batman to be. Yet he’s more than satisfied that they’ve come to this point. He’s thinks the Joker would jump out of the boat if he asked him to.

 

Bruce is so satisfied over the Joker’s emotional reaction that it sickens him. But even this isn’t enough. He sees no other way to guarantee the Joker’s allegiance than to sacrifice a piece of his own sanity and morality in order to look that much more convincing, and allows the guilt and the darkness that have been oppressing him since he’d fired that gun to steal into his chest. It’s a powerful feeling, a thrill that confirms his suspicion that he’ll soon cross the point of no return, if he hasn’t already. It goes against everything he’s tried to represent.

 

But he wants the Joker to see what happens when he threatens the people he cares about. He wants the Joker to squirm. He needs the Joker to be drawn to him and the danger he wants to emanate like a moth is hopelessly drawn to a flame.

 

“If you even think of testing me, or Gordon,” Bruce hisses, his hotly spoken words searing the Joker’s cheek, “When I am done with you, you will wish I had left you at Arkham to face this alone, without me, without the Batman, the infected pouring into your little cell like rabid animals until you become one of them yourself.”

 

The Joker swallows. “I get it, Bats. I really do. And I have to say that I’m impressed.”

 

Bruce doesn’t want the Joker to be impressed by his promise to kill him. But if this, gaining the Joker’s respect by taking one step into the abyss, is what saves the lives of Gordon and his children, it’s a small sacrifice. And one he is more than willing to pay.

 

“It makes me want to test your resolve,” the Joker says.

 

“Do not toy with me, Joker,” Bruce warns him.

 

“I wasn’t going to, though,” the Joker says hastily. “Hurt them, I mean, but that’s thanks to you, and your, uh, unwavering loyalty and attachment to them. I guess that thing with Ben and the boat broke ya after all, huh?”

 

Bruce won’t deny it, not now, not after they had survived so much to get to this point. He can’t hide what killing that man has done to him, what it can still do to him. It’s best to face the Joker’s judgement and assumptions on his own terms. Get it over with. In private. Shake things up while his head is still in the game. A very dangerous game.

 

He looks straight at the Joker. “I murdered him, whether or not you were telling the truth about the cut on his knee. I murdered him, and it has changed me, yes.”

 

“You’re taking it rather well,” the Joker says after a pause. “For the record, the broken bat look suits you. I like it.”

 

Bruce holds the Joker’s gaze for another moment but is the first to look away. The Joker has no idea how broken he already is and that his seven years away from Gotham is a part of that. He isn’t sure he ever wants him to know, but he’s certain he wants to tell him, eventually.

 

It is another contradiction that makes no sense, not even to him.

 

He retreats, puts the conversation to rest, knowing full well the Joker’s eyes follow his every move. He’s gratified that he holds at least that much power over the other man, but he can’t let the Joker’s goading get under his skin more than it already has. He can’t afford to.

 

The Joker relaxes, slipping into a more casual posture and seemingly unbothered by his erection. “We’re good, then, I take it?”

 

“Seems that way.” Bruce sits at the foot of the bed and disables the compression feature of his suit.

 

He must have enabled it during a fight without even thinking about it. The second he releases the pressure a sharp pain takes his breath away, and he curses.

 

“You alright, there, Brucie boy?” the Joker asks amusedly.

 

“Never better.” He knows without looking that he’d sustained a minor injury during the fight or in the car crash. He doesn’t think his ribs are cracked, merely bruised, but he’s not certain.

 

Grimacing, he bends at the waist to pull the suit down to the floor, cursing when his fingers fumble. He moves stiffly until he acclimates himself to the sharp pain.

 

“You should let me take a look at that,” the Joker says, staring at the bruise blossoming on Bruce’s side. “I do know a thing or two, you know. You might have done more than crack a rib.”

 

Bruce straightens his spine one vertebrae at a time and tosses his suit in the corner of the floor. He eyes the Joker’s dirty clothing on the floor beside it and decides that he’ll save the water and just discard them. “They’re not cracked,” he says. “I’m fine.”

 

He gives the Joker a casual glance, relieved to see that the Joker’s erection is wilting, for lack of a better word. He’s doesn’t want to have that sexual manipulation on his conscience. It’s the last thing he needs on top of becoming a murderer.

 

“I had no idea you lived in constant denial,” the Joker murmurs.

 

Bruce raises a brow. “About?”

 

“Everything.”

 

Bruce looks steadily at him. “I’m not in denial about anything and I’m not going to waste my time worrying about an insignificant injury that I’ve ignored in the past without a problem.”

 

“It isn’t just _that_ -uh.”

 

“It isn’t anything,” Bruce clips. He wants to eat, longs for a bed, but he needs to wash his armor. He’d rather be wearing a clean and, hopefully, dry suit once they find an island and he scouts out the land. First, however, he has to help the Joker or his conscience will eat him alive. “We’ll take a look at the leg and then I’ll help you wash up.”

 

Bruce finds the towels and washcloths in a drawer, setting them on the bed before wrapping one of the towels around his waist. He tries not to think about the fact that they smell like they’ve recently been washed and dried by Alfred.

 

The Joker limps into the small bathroom, moving painfully slow, and this time Bruce follows, holding himself gingerly. He’ll have to be careful once they’re on the island that he doesn’t pull or strain a muscle until he heals. It’s unlikely, when there’s much work ahead, including patrols around the perimeter.

 

“Sit,” Bruce says, motioning to the built-in seat by the shower head.

 

The seat is small, perfect for a slim man like the Joker, and will give Bruce, with his broader shoulders and thicker build, more room to stand while helping him bathe.

 

The Joker obeys and waits, looking bored but not uninterested in Bruce’s physique by the way the man stares him up and down. He tries to ignore the way his heart starts to race at the unbidden attention, but he can’t. It’s surreal for them to be this comfortable with each other again despite their differences and the confrontation they’d had but are leaving behind them.

 

But he can’t deny it. They’re at ease with one other. And for them, two people who are the outsiders in this world but are on this boat, and while they’re still alive, it is enough.

 

Bruce needs it to be enough.

 

He has to hold onto his humanity somehow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude to those of you who are reading/commenting/giving kudos. I can’t begin to tell you how encouraging it is! 
> 
> Michael_was_filled_with_self_loathing—you’re the best! Thank you for stepping up to the plate and being that second pair of eyes for me!
> 
> Just a small warning to give, in the end notes. And the rating is up, yes. 
> 
> You’re not seeing things. I changed the summary into something that is more suitable. :)
> 
> Also, I’ve realized this story should be titled...Bruce Wayne and the Joker, All Alone in the World...
> 
> None of this is going to be healthy, especially for Bruce.

 oOo

  

Chapter Two

 

He wonders if he’s seeing the Joker for the first time, if the Joker is seeing him. He thinks he’s falling, too deep, too fast, into something that can only have a bitter ending.  

 

oOo

 

 

_“Sit,” Bruce says, motioning to the built-in seat by the shower head._

_The seat is small, perfect for the Joker, and will give Bruce, with his broader shoulders and build, more room to stand._

_The Joker obeys and waits, looking bored but not uninterested in Bruce’s physique from the way the man stares him up and down. He tries to ignore the way his race races at the unbidden attention, but he can’t. It’s surreal for them to be this comfortable with each other again despite their differences and the confrontation they’d had but are leaving behind them._

_But he can’t deny it. They’re at ease with one other. And for them, two people who are the outsiders in this world but are on this boat, and while they’re still alive, it is enough._

_Bruce needs it to be enough._

_He has to hold onto his humanity somehow._

 

Bruce finds the first aid kit from the cupboard above the sink. He opens it, relieved to see it’s fully stocked with gauze, bandages, a small pair of scissors, medication, a thermometer, and more. Alfred’s doing, of course.

 

It isn’t as painful to have his name run through his head, but it still hurts. Taking a breath, he turns around to look at the Joker. “Ready?”

 

The Joker gives him a small nod but is otherwise silent. Bruce doesn’t mind the lull in conversation. It’s more familiar to him than the Joker might realize. Then again, it’s become apparent that the Joker can be as nonverbal as Bruce is on his most depressive days, much to his chagrin. How Alfred put up with his melancholy all these years is beyond him. He hasn’t always been easy to live with.

 

He kneels on the floor, sets the kit aside, and peels the bandage from the Joker’s leg. Somehow, while they’re both naked, stripped down to be the same, to be human, it’s better and easier and he can’t explain why. Yet there is nothing sexual between them in this exact moment while they’re simply surviving. It’s just them without their masks, without expectations, only acceptance.

 

The Joker studies him, obviously taking advantage of the fact that Bruce is busy with his hands and can’t pay much attention to him. But curiosity gets the best of Bruce and he peers up at the Joker through his lashes, but briefly. Although the Joker’s face gives nothing away, Bruce is certain he’s searching for signs of weakness. They won’t be too hard to find. The Joker has already found several, whether he recognizes them or not.

 

Without the cowl Bruce is stripped bare. He doesn’t understand why the Joker, who has a long and storied history of manipulation and violence, hasn’t twisted his weaknesses for his own purposes yet. Then again, this is what the Joker does best. He gathers intel. Sits on it. Plans as much as he says he doesn’t, wreaking havoc on the lives around him when it’ll hurt the most.

 

It’s disconcerting. He wants to know what’s going on in the Joker’s head. It’s doubtful that he ever will. He can only try to anticipate his next move.

 

Seeing debris on the surface of the broken skin, Bruce irrigates the wound on Joker’s leg, using the hose connected to the shower head. The Joker’s body stiffens from head to toe as water runs over the damaged skin.

 

Bruce’s mouth tightens. He should have looked at the injury as soon as they’d gotten in the yacht, not hours after the fact, but it’s a moot point now. At least he’s realized the Joker has no awareness of self-care. It will be up to Bruce to keep an eye out for him. It’s not too different from what he’s been doing all along, since he helped the Joker escape Arkham.

 

He observes the Joker closely enough to note when pain flashes across his face. The Joker doesn’t say a word about it, and Bruce can’t let it go. He stops the water and places a hand on the top of Joker’s knee to steady him. The physical contact and the empathy that drives him to help others soothes his own nerves, and he pushes thoughts of prison and rats and warning Joker aside.

 

“I’m sorry this hurts you,” he says, and he means it. “You’re exhausted and dehydrated, which is why it’s so painful.”

 

Joker chews on his bottom lip, his sensitivity to touch obvious as he withdraws his leg. And when Bruce attempts to finish cleaning the gash and the Joker hisses with pain, Bruce has had enough. He withdraws his hand.

 

The Joker latches onto his wrist before he can pull away. “Finish it.”

 

Bruce studies the Joker’s weary features, his dark, sunken eyes, the pale skin that is lighter than ever before except for the the deep bruising on one side of his face. Bruce isn’t the only one close to collapsing. The Joker is, too, which explains his mellow behavior. Either that or he’s experiencing withdrawal from his meds.

 

Bruce wishes he’d paid more attention to the Joker’s so-called treatment in recent months, like he had in the beginning, before his pride had gotten the best of him and he started to withdraw from society. But even if he could get back to Arkham and locate Joker’s meds, the building will be crawling with the infected.

 

“You’re hurting,” he points out. “I can wait another minute.”

 

“I’m fine,” the Joker says, and there’s a resignation settling in his voice that Bruce doesn’t like. “Do what you need to do.”

 

Bruce glances down at the first aid kit and picks up a packet of pills. He holds it up for the Joker to see. “I can give you two of these for the pain.”

 

The Joker looks disdainfully at the medication. “I don’t want them.”

 

“You need them,” Bruce points out.

 

“How many are there?”

 

“Six.”

 

“No pills. Save them for someone else.”

 

Bruce lifts a brow. “That’s awfully generous of you.”

 

The Joker shrugs delicately, his bony shoulders already too thin. “I meant you, and your ribs there,” he explains, nodding towards Bruce’s chest.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“So am I.”

 

“No, you’re—”

 

Joker snorts. “Pot, kettle.”

 

Bruce decides to keep a measure of peace between them and relents. He quietly returns the pack of pills even though he disagrees. He would rather proceed knowing the Joker had taken something for the pain.

 

But the pills aren’t just for the Joker’s sake. When Bruce isn’t wearing his cowl, it’s difficult inflicting pain on someone, especially if it’s necessary. Like now. He delays and stares at the floor, trying to convince himself that he had to tell him.

 

Joker sighs. “What is it _now_?”

 

Bruce hesitates. “It opened up, probably when you jumped into the lifeboat. You need stitches.”

 

“I assume you know how.”

 

“More than most,” Bruce mutters. He grabs a needle and thread. “And I usually do it myself.”

 

Joker huffs a laugh, but it’s caught off short when he accidentally jostles his leg. “I bet you do. I’ve seen those scars.”

 

“But my hands won’t stop shaking,” Bruce admits.

 

The Joker opens his mouth as if to speak, then clamps it shut. He blinks at Bruce once, then twice, before lowering his gaze to rest on Bruce’s hands and the tremors overtaking them again. “Shock,” he says.

 

Bruce takes a sharp breath. He’s always had a difficult time diagnosing his own psychological issues, even when they stem from physical pain, which is why he’d given Alfred a substantial pay raise that first night he came back to the manor as Batman. And every month thereafter. “Maybe.”

 

Bruce resists the urge to hide his hands. They shake every time he thinks of shooting Ben. The infected. Gotham. _Prison_. They’ll shake in his nightmares, he thinks.

 

The needle is loose between his fingers, vibrating.

 

“Not maybe,” the Joker says. “You are in shock.”

 

Bruce is tempted to agree. He doesn’t. Neither does he tell him the truth. Leslie Thompkins had diagnosed him with hoplophobia when he was only nine years old. After months of nightmares and night terrors, he’d finally told Alfred what, exactly, they’d been about. Alfred had been horrified but mostly worried, calling on a longtime friend for help.

 

Then again, Bruce had recently murdered someone in cold blood, even if he’d been justified in the act. He’d killed, using a tool he feared more than he’d ever feared bats. Shock is more than a fitting description of his symptoms.

 

“You don’t believe me?” the Joker asks. “Then let me tell you why I _provoked_ you, as you put it.”

 

Bruce furrows his brow. “What?”

 

The Joker sighs. “It was to get your mind off the shakes. And it _worked_.”

 

For a moment, Bruce doesn’t know what to say. The Joker had tried to _help_ him? It‘s actually kind of...sweet.

 

But ‘Joker’ and ‘sweet’ in the same sentence unsettles him. So does the fact that his thoughts had even gone down that twisted path.

 

Bruce refuses to fall for a lie, but it’s possible the Joker had been amusing himself by manipulating him like that. “I….thank you,” he says cautiously.

 

The Joker shrugs. “It was selfish, really. You’re a real drag when you think too much. Seemed to be the best way to help you focus on something else.”

 

Bruce exhales slowly, wondering if he should be offended. He decides he shouldn’t be and accepts the Joker’s...honesty.

 

If only the Joker’s plan would work again. “Do you want Gordon to do this?” Bruce asks. “He’d have a steadier hand.”

 

Joker shakes his head.

 

“Okay,” Bruce concedes. “But only if you thread the needle for me.”

 

Admitting he needs help is humbling, but the way his hand shakes as he holds out the needle and thread is humiliating. His face must betray his feelings. The Joker looks at him for a long time before quietly taking the items from him.

 

Bruce watches him, detesting his own weakness. This incompetence that isn’t _him_ , but at least the Joker is being helpful. Wordlessly, the Joker threads the needle and gives it back to him.

 

Their hands accidentally meet, Joker’s skin surprisingly chilled against his. “You’re cold,” Bruce says unnecessarily. Without thinking he wraps his other hand around the Joker’s to warm it. “I’ll make sure the water’s comfortable.”

 

When Joker’s hand relaxes within his own, his only response, Bruce can’t help but hold on to the blood-warmed flesh, the reminder he needs to know that they’re still alive, for as long as Joker lets him.

 

He’s struck by the domesticity of the situation. Domestic he is not, even on his days off. He thinks the Joker may be more domestic than he is, and unprecedented laughter rises in his chest.

 

He suppresses it with a cough and, throat tight, breaks eye contact first. He pulls his hand away—but with difficulty he never expected. “I’ll just...hurry up.” He takes a deep breath. “Thank you. For helping.”

 

The Joker watches him, making no effort to continue the conversation.

 

With Alfred’s words of caution about gashes and bacteria running through his head, Bruce has never been so careful with his stitches than when he is now. Despite the tremors, he manages to suture the wound without hurting him excessively. His stitches aren’t perfect, but it’s the best he can do. He applies a primary layer of gauze, then wraps a length of bandage around the Joker’s leg to give it more support.

 

“Keep it dry,” he reminds him. “Stay off your feet as much as possible for two days, at the least. It’s going to feel tender for awhile.”

 

And if their diet degrades over the course of the next few months, healing normally from a minor injury like this could be difficult.

 

“Yes, Mom,” Joker drawls.

 

With a slight smirk, Bruce unties the towel around his waist, letting it drop to the floor. Stepping into the stall again with the Joker, he starts the shower. He’s relieved there actually _is_ water in the tank, lots of it, which indicates that Alfred had planned to twist Bruce’s arm, perhaps even blackmailing him to agree to taking a few days off.

 

With a long, self-deprecating sigh, he directs the low-pressure spray so that it hits the Joker’s uninjured leg. The Joker narrows his eyes.

 

Bruce shrugs off the concern. “It’s nothing.”

 

But the Joker’s eyes bore into him as he takes the washcloth and lathers it with soap, then turns off the water to conserve it. He ignores the sudden interest and begins to wash the Joker’s body. He gently cleans his back and other areas the man can’t reach for himself, or reach well, thanks to his injured leg and the cramped space the seat provides.

 

After awhile, Joker’s eyes flutter shut. Sensing he wants to be left alone in the silence, Bruce observes him quietly and keeps to himself as he scrubs the grime off the Joker’s long limbs. Lost in thought, his movements slow, gradually becoming longer, more deliberate strokes. He’s captivated by this unexpected stillness from the Joker, his unhindered trust that Bruce will not harm him.

 

He wants to believe that he treats the Joker like anyone else who needed his help. Yet it’s clear he treats him differently, and he can’t distinguish for himself what that difference is. He isn’t sure he wants to and clings to the way the Joker’s presence seems to patch his fragmented life, giving him purpose. He wonders if, through this process, he’s using the Joker or deceiving himself—or both. He doesn’t know what to think when he sees that his hand tremors have all but disappeared. This mundane act has somehow soothed his nerves.

 

The Joker’s lips twitch as Bruce scrubs the bottoms of his feet, where he finds caked mud and blood. It’s a miracle the Joker never turned. He firms his touch on Joker’s heel once he realizes the man is ticklish there, too. It’s possible that underneath this shroud of silence the Joker feels awkward that Bruce is helping him with such a basic need. And if that is true, the last thing Bruce wants to do is to make him feel even more uncomfortable.

 

Washing the Joker is a lengthy process and most likely his own fault that it takes so long. But when he urges the Joker to shift his body so that his back rests up against Bruce’s chest and he’s looking up at the ceiling, at Bruce, they...fit. The Joker’s lean form doesn’t fill much space, allowing Bruce’s bulkier physique to shadow him. It reminds him of the moment they shared kissing in the rain and desperately rutting against each other in the midst of the madness surrounding them.

 

They lock eyes effortlessly, heat inexplicably rising between their bodies. The Joker’s open expression takes him by surprise. It’s filled with yearning, like he wants him, wants _Bruce_ , and would walk a thousand miles to get to him. In a way the Joker already has. He’s proven it by escaping from the infected with him instead of running off, by agreeing to leave Gordon and his family alone for Bruce’s sake. Even if the Joker is selfishly helping them in order to save himself, it’s still _something_. The look in the Joker’s eyes is as real as the one Bruce is sending him that he can’t take back.

 

He doesn’t know what to say or if he should say anything at all. For once it seems like the Joker is fresh out of words. He can’t remember being this enthralled by a face before or this enamored by the idea of someone knowing and understanding who he really is.

 

He wonders if he’s seeing the Joker for the first time, if the Joker is seeing him. He thinks he’s falling, too deep, too fast, into something that can only have a bitter ending. How they went from enemies to _this_ so quickly makes no sense. How they can _still_ be enemies but this as well makes even less sense.

 

“I wasn’t trying to offend you,” Joker says, reaching back to grip Bruce’s left bicep. The muscle flexes under his touch. “Earlier, I mean. About Alfred.”

 

Bruce nods. He’s coming to realize that after spending a few short days with the Joker that the space between them vanishes when they are like this. Alone yet together, after their city has been torn apart and they’ve watched it self-destruct, just the two of them, side-by-side. They can just... _be_...without doing anything else, within their own reality. “I know.”

 

“Good.” The Joker tilts his head back like before, and his eyes dance across Bruce’s face.

 

Bruce turns the water back on to rinse the Joker’s body, shielding his leg from the light spray with his body. He looks down at the Joker’s clean face and cups the Joker’s jaw with his free hand. His fingers graze the Joker’s signature scars, touch featherlight. He thinks the man pushes into his hand for a fraction of a second, but it has to be his imagination.

 

“Hold still,” Bruce murmurs.

 

The Joker lets go of Bruce’s arm and closes his eyes. As the Joker goes limp under his hands, Bruce releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He adjusts the spray of water and begins the next step, washing the Joker's hair.

 

The Joker leans against Bruce with nearly all of his weight by the time he’s done, the way his head presses against his abdomen oddly comforting. The Joker is sitting sideways with his good leg bent, knee up and against the wall. It can’t be comfortable yet the man doesn’t budge, and Bruce tries to make it as easy on him as he can.

 

Bruce loses himself to his thoughts as he massages the Joker’s head, his fingers tangled in his wet locks. He stares at the Joker’s long lashes while he’s unaware. But soon his hands still, and he waits to see if being here with him is enough for the Joker to surrender.

 

When he’s almost certain the Joker is asleep, a hand suddenly snakes back and grips his bare hip. The Joker opens his eyes and he stares up at Bruce, his expression unreadable. Even so, Bruce can see that sleep is the furthest thing from the Joker’s mind.

 

Torn, Bruce freezes. He can’t possibly want this but he does and he leans into the Joker’s hand with movements beyond his control. He doesn’t shy away and neither does the Joker, whose fingers curl into the hollow of Bruce’s hip like he’s afraid he’ll leave. Bruce craves to touch him with equal possessiveness but there is a fragile trust between them that he doesn’t want to destroy. He merely slips a hand under the Joker’s chin, curving his fingers around the Joker’s neck and gently holding him there but willing to let go if he wants him to.

 

They’re at a standstill, and the moment swells. There’s a sense of safety between them, a space that is calm and quiet and patient when it shouldn’t be. It’s perfect in a way that Bruce isn’t sure he wants to understand. He’s not sure he can even define it.

 

Gazing down at the Joker, Bruce strokes the pulse at the Joker’s neck with his thumb, until the motion begins to lull him into a trance. He watches the Joker’s contented expression with nothing less than awe, tracing the shape of his face with a slow sweep of his eyes and inspecting the lines he’s never seen before. And maybe never _wanted_ to see.

 

Through it all, the Joker watches him watch _him_ , until Bruce sees himself in those astonishingly deep, brown depths. It’s much easier to recognize, now, how obvious he’s being about his feelings. He wants this intimacy with the Joker and will put himself in a vulnerable position, at the mercy of a man who many call a monster, to get it. But the Joker’s a man who has changed in a matter of days. Maybe even irrevocably. Like Bruce.

 

Something has forged between them through blood, sweat, and a shared, sheer will that Bruce can no longer ignore. It both frightens and engages him, reminding him that there’s no going back from this even if he wanted to. But he’s never excelled at cultivating a relationship on any romantic level as Bruce Wayne. And, now, with the Joker, it appears that he’s in deep already. It’s another contradiction.

 

He knows that somewhere along the line, life has fucked him up so badly that it will prevent him from having a long-lasting, healthy relationship.

 

He’s a billionaire and a vigilante, a trained assassin and a philanthropist, but so emotionally stunted as an adult that, realistically speaking, it will be better for him—and for any possible future partners—to remain single for the rest of his life. He wonders why he’s even bothering with _this_ when society is collapsing and the stench of the dead and the undead fill the streets of Gotham and beyond. He thinks that if he’s not careful, the Joker will see right through him.

 

Henri Ducard had only exacerbated those issues which Bruce could never sort out as a child. Teenager. Young adult. Nothing, not even copious amounts of therapy, will ever reverse the damage that has been done to his psyche. He can see that now, after Rachel’s death. He can also see that even though he believes he once loved her, he’s been lying to himself about it, clinging in vain to a dream ever since she’d died. Alfred had, quite often and in that quiet way of his, tried to tell him this, but Bruce had always been too stubborn to listen.

 

He knows, now, that they never would have been happy together. He’d have disappointed her, many times over, and she would have expected too much of him, lacking the understanding that he’d longed for.

 

The one comfort he has left is that she’d been spared this disaster.

 

Rachel may be gone, but the Joker is here, expecting something from Bruce. Something he isn’t sure he can give. It’s easier to give in to the urge to look away, move past what will always be difficult for him, so he does. Not even the Joker deserves someone as screwed up as he is.

 

He has to stop this _now_.

 

“I think we’re done here,” he says, averting his gaze.

 

He drops one hand, and the Joker straightens his back to carry his own weight. Bruce turns off the water and turns away, his heart growing heavy. It’s more difficult than he’d imagined to end something that has barely started that never should have begun in the first place.

 

“Bruce,” the Joker says slowly. “Wait- _tuh_ ”

 

Bruce looks back resignedly. He owes the Joker that much, at least, for forcing him to endure this awkward moment between them. But when he locks eyes with the Joker, he’s taken by surprise. Joker’s gaze hypnotizes him, pulling him in until he’s lost in the _wanting_ he sees there.

 

He’s not sure what he’d expected to see, but this, acceptance, isn’t it. He can hardly believe it’s directed at him, and he stands there, immovable and resisting his own attraction to the Joker, telling himself that this is something left in his life that he can control. It’s one of the _last_ things he has left to control.

 

But he doesn’t know if he wants to and it’s terrifying.

 

His armor cracks more, the reverence with which Joker spoke his name chipping away at the walls he’s built. He wants to act, yearns to fall into what they’d shared before, without strings attached or their usual rules. He longs for the Joker to want the same.

 

But it’s impossible. His heart aches with the truth of it, more so when he knows he can’t give in to this unpredictable, passionate man, at least not completely. Would his feelings be reciprocated—or manipulated and destroyed by the end? Does he dare find out and submit to this secret desire he never knew he’d had? Or does he guard his mind, prevent it from shattering more, protect it from someone who twists the truth?

 

For Gordon, Jimmy, and Barbie’s sake he can’t afford to let himself fall apart but he has to maintain a connection with the Joker at the same time to save their lives. It appears as if that connection will be made through physical intimacy. An intimacy that he doesn’t find abhorrent, not when he thinks of the Joker as just a man, or when he thinks the Joker’s right and society really is collapsing.

 

He wonders what will be left out there for them, and knows, deep down, that he doesn’t want to face it alone like he’s faced everything else in his life. There’s no one else that challenges him like the Joker, no one else that gets his blood hot and burning in his veins.

 

He has to find a balance. He just doesn’t know how much of himself he’ll lose in the process.

 

If he only knew what medications they’d given the Joker at Arkham. He doesn’t know if the doctors managed, by a miracle, to actually alter something that can’t be changed, the Joker’s personality disorder. But he can’t assume that the Joker’s current lackadaisical behavior will continue.

 

Meditation has helped Bruce center his mind. If he can convince Joker to try it, he’s more than willing take the time to introduce him to the methods that have proved useful to him over the past decade. He’s not sure how much it will actually help, if it will at all, but if it’ll keep the Joker calm and by his side a couple times a day, a half hour or more at a time, it will be worth the effort.

 

But now isn’t the right time to approach the subject. He’ll have to wait until they’re away from Gordon and his kids, somewhere private where the Joker doesn’t feel pressured into it or threatened or under a microscope.

 

Realizing he’s been staring for far too long, Bruce swallows with difficulty, his throat sandpaper rough as if he’s been patrolling for hours in a storm. His heart, something that he’s put off considering for far too long, isn’t much better. “Your towel is on the counter beside you,” he says hoarsely. “The towels on the bed are for Gordon and the kids.”

 

It’s a dismissal, a reminder that their world is uncertain at best. He lets his other hand drop and clenches it into a fist at his side.

 

The Joker watches him for a moment before saying slowly, “I know.” He tests his leg, then stands. “Do _you_ need help?”

 

Bruce wants the assistance the Joker’s offering, if not to hand over the responsibility to someone other than himself, but it’s impractical and foolish. “You should stay off your feet as much as you can until that leg heals. I’ll manage on my own.”

 

“If you say so.” The Joker slips past him.

 

Bruce watches him retreat, happy to see that his limp isn’t as noticeable as it had been. He sighs and closes the door behind him, already rueing his decision to let the Joker go. Back at Wayne Manor he’d often luxuriate in long, hot showers, fogging up all the mirrors in the process. He prefers to feel the heat when he steps out of the shower and into a warm room, steam all around him. He has a feeling it will be years before he’ll ever let himself enjoy these small comforts of life again. He wishes he could just stand here without moving another sore muscle but he can’t even do that. Help would be nice.

 

But he’s a loner by choice and profession, more so since he became a wanted criminal by the police and even feared by Gotham’s law-abiding citizens. In essence, losing himself to long periods of melancholy and his darker moods despite Alfred’s best efforts to keep him in the light, not the shadows. In recent months, he’d become more of a recluse than a philanthropist than he’d ever thought would be possible.

 

Just before the outbreak, he’d decided to stop his current projects, after forfeiting the only one that had promise of changing the future of the world. He’d considered relinquishing his position at Wayne Enterprises to a better man or woman whose heart and mind were more invested in the company’s future than his own and could build the company back up. Lucius had begged him not to and out of respect for him, Bruce had agreed to wait before making a decision.

 

Standing here, alone, these feelings hit him at full throttle. And his failure, as his father’s son, to take his place in the family business.

 

Ironically, he has to make a decision now that’s just as crucial. A decision that will affect how he acts around those who have survived. Drop all pretenses and be who he is under the mask of Bruce Wayne—or maintain the Batman persona around the clock to protect the people who know his identity and to protect himself. Or simply play the game he always has.

 

After the dust clears and the infected are purged from the earth he hopes the Bruce Wayne that Gotham knows can return. Meanwhile, is it worth it to risk that identity or the people who know he’s Batman? He has offshore accounts, aliases in other countries for both himself and Alfred, even if he jeopardizes ‘Wayne.’ But if he can somehow maintain the playboy facade, and society is not completely destroyed, he’ll be able to help rebuild Gotham, brick by brick, dollar by dollar—and eventually return as Batman in some capacity to protect it the only way the vigilante knows how to.

 

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to manage both while living life so precariously, either. He can’t imagine pretending to be arrogant and dimwitted Wayne one moment, and Batman the next, all while keeping the respective identities separate from each other, especially on a boat or an island or anywhere else there are other people. There is a another option, and even a fourth, and he suspects that those will win in the end.

 

But there is no guarantee they’ll survive the months ahead with yet another of Gotham’s fierce winters approaching. Gordon is right. They really are depending on Bruce to survive. It is an enormous responsibility for a man who wants something from the Joker that he himself can’t even define.

 

“Alfred, what should I do?” he whispers. What he wouldn’t give to hear his father’s wisdom, infused with the wit that has kept him going even on the darkest of days. He could discuss things with Gordon, but that will only prove the Joker’s point. That he, Bruce Wayne, views the older man as a father figure. It’s a connection he wants but subject to manipulation in the wrong hands.

 

He’s made too many mistakes as it is, and his mind grows mercifully numb as he begins several breathing exercises Ducard had taught him, separating himself from the thought of them.

 

He allows his head to drop and hang low between his shoulders. He bares the back of his neck to the spray of water, his palms spread wide and pressed against the wall.

 

____________

 

Bruce is lost in his thoughts when he hears a noise beside him. It snaps him out of the haze.

 

He blindly reaches for the other washcloth only to discover it isn’t there. He opens his eyes and the Joker is at the door, naked but with the washcloth in his hands.

 

“It dropped,” the Joker says.

 

Bruce isn’t sure that it had actually dropped and eyes it with a raised brow. He takes the cloth from him because it would be rude if he didn’t and lathers it with soap, shutting off the water again. He washes the filth off every inch of his body, feeling as if he’s scrubbing away his old skin for the sake of the new to come.

 

He thinks the Joker will leave but he just stands there, watching Bruce like he has every right to do so. He wonders how this is his life now.

 

“Personally, I think we should act like we hate each other’s guts in front of him to throw him off,” Joker says when Bruce is nearly done, now rinsing himself off.

 

Bruce startles and turns his head to stare at him.

 

“Oh, don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Bats,” Joker says, crossing his arms.

 

Bruce shrugs. “Okay,” he says and closes his eyes.

 

The Joker laughs and crowds him until he’s pressed up against the wall.

 

“What are you doing?” Bruce asks, eyeing the Joker’s bandaged leg. “You shouldn’t get that—”

 

The Joker closes the distance between them, his lips silencing him with their warmth. They fall into a messy but mutually satisfying kiss with astonishing ease, the outside world soon forgotten, water spilling over their faces.

 

The Joker’s mouth demands more from Bruce and when rational thought fails him, when he banishes the saner thoughts of before, he pours himself into the kiss, the cloth forgotten and falling to the floor. If he’s going to do something so wrong that it feels so right, it may as well be the best damn kiss he has to offer.

 

And if he seems a bit needy, he’s not the only one. The Joker’s hands rove frantically over Bruce’s body as they try to find purchase, Bruce’s hands doing the same along the Joker’s bony, slim form. He craves the intimacy that the Joker’s body offers. It’s nothing like the limited contact he had with the women he brought home, and now that he’s had a taste of the Joker, he wants more.

 

He presses into the Joker until their bodies are flush with each other, skin to skin, hip to hip, navel to navel. The Joker clings to Bruce, one hand hovering over his bruised side, the other clutching the hollow of his other hip. But then the Joker’s fingers dig into overtaxed bone and muscle, the places Bruce expect to remain strong and resilient as he watches over Gotham. They’ve become worn and sensitive since he’s bathed his hands in blood, but maybe that’s exactly why they’ve attracted the Joker.

 

It shouldn’t surprise him that this unfiltered attention from him, this heated pursuit, somehow makes it right, but it does. Pain is such a normal part of his life that he can’t find it within himself to care that it hurts more than it pleasures. When the two sensations mix, they forge into a craving he can’t resist. He’s turned on, past the point of asking the Joker to stop. There’s no going back, even if he wanted to. With a small noise, Bruce tangles his fingers in the Joker’s hair, his other hand pressed against the Joker’s heart and caught between their chests.

 

It leaves him open and vulnerable on his injured side but he never feels threatened, only anticipation. He absently traces a shape on the Joker’s chest, the faint scars he sees there. The Joker’s fingers mimic his own in exploration, dancing over his bruised, bare skin like he’s testing him, waiting to see if he flinches away. Bruce never does. He’s just as observant. He wants to see if the Joker will do what he expects him to, if his damaged body tempts the Joker.

 

The Joker doesn’t disappoint. His fingers skate across Bruce’s bare skin to the center of the bruise. He presses into it with two fingers, sparking a fresh ache. Bruce’s breath catches at the sudden pain, but it’s familiar and the Joker at the same time and he needs it to be both.

 

He looks up and there’s the shadow of a satisfied smile on the Joker’s face. The Joker is taunting him, relaying to Bruce with that simple act that he knows this weakness, knows that Bruce is aware the Joker can hurt him if he so chooses.

 

And Bruce, in his stillness, is telling the Joker that he’s either he’s too trusting—or doesn’t care in the heat of the moment. Neither are healthy responses. He still can’t bring himself to care.

 

Pleasure from the pain—or the thrill of the unknown—courses through his body. His cock swells as he remembers their lips meeting for the first time. His hips driving into the Joker’s in the rain. The Joker willingly underneath him. Just the two of them, embracing the life that exists in each other, the only life around for miles. There’s nothing he wants more than to experience it all over again, nothing he wants more than the Joker’s body against his, no other craving he wants to satisfy.

 

Pulse racing, he stares into the eyes that had once haunted him in his dreams but that he now seeks out all on his own. The Joker’s eyes darken and he leans forward, covering Bruce’s lips with his own and demanding a passion from him that he’s more than willing to give.

 

True to form, the kiss is long and deep and dirty. Bruce falls into it, unable to suppress a groan as the Joker’s hands curve around his hips, his fingers relentless as they latch onto him. He’s certain there’ll be bruises there the next morning and it’s with a flicker of anticipation in his chest that he thinks he wants to see them. Their legs soon tangle, cocks hardening as they rub against slick, wet skin. Succumbing to the urge to trail kisses across the Joker’s scars and jawline and back again, Bruce tears his mouth away, senseless murmurs coming from his lips that he doesn’t understand himself, that he thinks are in another language and helpless to stop. He’s kissing the curve of scars on the Joker’s face when he realizes he’s speaking Bhutanese.

 

Bruce tries to switch to English, but it’s as if his mind is on autopilot. He’s thinking in Bhutanese, speaking words he never intended to say. He tries again, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the word vomit, but Ducard’s face comes to mind, fills the void the desolation of Gotham has caused. He can’t stop. He has no control over what he’s saying. Ducard has invaded his thoughts, Ra’s presence demanding Bruce’s attention like it always has in his worst nightmares. He’s a face that consumes the present, a remnant from his past.

 

But it’s the memory of his voice, the calm baritone chanting over him in training, that sends a chill down Bruce’s spine, its crooked fingers latching on to him.

 

He unwittingly begins to speak faster, words escaping his lips one right after another without respite. His breath quickens until his chest is heaving and his skin flushed and he doesn’t know if he’s on the yacht or in Ducard’s burning house or his own burning manor or training on the ice or—

 

A cool hand cups one side of his face, the touch grounding him to the present, but he feels as if he still has one foot in his sordid past. The Joker’s hand slides down Bruce’s cheek heavily, nails scraping his cheek and causing him to stumble over his words, urging him to turn his head.

 

Bruce fights the prodding. Refuses the redirection. Ducard is calling, and he cannot deny him.

 

But steely fingers suddenly lock onto his chin like a vise, countering Ducard’s order and forcing him back into the Joker’s intense gaze. Bruce’s neck stiffens and he flinches, resenting the fingers digging into face like nails being hammered into his jaw.

 

“Bats,” the Joker grits out.

 

Bruce’s eyes try to follow the sound of his voice and he stares at the Joker without really seeing him, the chant continuing.

 

The Joker’s eyes burn like fire. “Focus on me, Bats,” he hisses.

 

Bruce jerks his head away, his breath catching as the Joker’s pierce him and fight to draw him out.

 

“That’s it,” Joker says, trailing a sharp nail down his cheek. “Listen to _me_.”

 

The chant is broken now, his mouth feeling as if it’s full of cotton. He breathes harshly and stumbles over more words, until they begin to vanish at the sound of Joker’s voice.

 

The Joker hums. “That’s it. Listen.”

 

Bruce bends to his will and closes his eyes. Ducard’s face disappears but without it, he’s imbalanced. He’s lost, he thinks. But then the Joker’s mouth is on his ear, teeth biting down and bringing pain, and he’s not lost. Not when he slips an arm around the Joker’s neck and breathes against his collarbone, clinging to him when the memories he’s tried to forget claw at his back.

 

He steals a ragged breath to clear his head but the shadows are catching up to him. He can feel them trailing him, but the Joker’s voice also beckons. Desperate to leave his past behind, seeing no other way to lose Ducard, he opens his eyes.

 

Joker is watching him, inches away from his face. The Joker’s gaze drops to Bruce’s mouth and he moisten his lips with that ever-familiar, sweeping motion of his tongue.

 

Watching him, Bruce doesn’t think, he just acts. He leans forward, tentatively pressing his lips against the Joker’s. When the Joker presses back, returning the kiss, Bruce acts on impulse and slides his tongue across the Joker’s lips. The Joker parts them, granting Bruce immediate access. It’s not unusual for Bruce to imagine the mountains while in a lip lock with one of his dates, and this, with the Joker, is no different, and he accepts it without questioning. He plunders the Joker’s mouth, and the kiss deepens like the dawn, the sun rising in the sky with an endless array of brilliant color. The likes of which Bruce has never seen in his dismal life except in the memory of his own forced exile. Bhutan resonates with him. Always Bhutan. He can’t seem to get away from it.

 

He tastes both water and blood on their lips, hears the desperate moan escaping the Joker that echoes his own. He can’t resist the taste of the Joker and chases down his tongue. His arms wrap around the Joker’s slim shoulders. They cling to one another until there is no space between them and all they have is the present and warmth and the comfort of each other.

 

But the stillness doesn’t last long, not when Bruce is hard and Joker’s arousal is nudging his thighs. Their lips clash in a fight for dominance until Bruce shoves his knee between the Joker’s legs. It’s a bold move, but he’s banking on Joker’s weakened leg to give. It does, and he feels the Joker lurch in surprise. But Bruce won’t let him fall. He twists them around in one smooth movement and gains the upper hand, slamming the Joker’s back against the wall and locking him into place, hoping it’s enough to make the Joker forget about his bizarre behavior.

 

The Joker stares at Bruce, his expression unguarded. “Bats,” he says, a gasp escaping from his swollen, parted lips.

 

He doesn’t sound like a criminal, a murderer or a liar. He sounds like someone Wayne would bring to his bed after a party. A social climber. A socialite. The people who look at Bruce like he’s a god, their god, because of his wealth. His classic, aristocratic features. The attention he’s showering on them.

 

Bruce has never liked that look, or that tone of voice. It reminds him of his repeated manipulations as Wayne to maintain his cover, his attempts at keeping the media happy about his so-called ‘love life.’ But it’s different coming from the Joker. If Bruce had an ego like Wayne’s he’d take advantage of it, of the Joker, but he doesn’t. It makes him more aware of his desires, but so vulnerable with them that he knows he won’t be able to hide his feelings.

 

It’s next to impossible to maintain another mask in front of this man.

 

“Gordon,” the Joker says in a choked voice.

 

Assuming he’s referring to the sound of his body hitting a wall, and the chance that Gordon had heard it, Bruce offers him a crooked smile. “Soundproof.”

 

“Of course.” The Joker’s laugh shakes with desire.

 

Taking the laugh as consent, Bruce’s eyes soften and he slides his hands across Joker’s chest in exploration through patches of short, curly hair, over sensitive nubs that make the Joker’s breath hitch. He catalogues the reaction and his hands slip upward past the collarbone until he’s caught the Joker’s jaw with two, curved fingers.

 

The Joker’s eyes are wide, darkness swallowing them whole and his own heart is pounding in his chest. There’s a look on the Joker’s face that Bruce can’t put into words, and he lightens his touch because he wants the Joker to crave more, to make the moment last. He leans forward and captures the Joker’s mouth in a long and tender kiss, the Joker’s response oddly just as cautious. They fall into a different rhythm than before and, out of sheer curiosity and want, Bruce caresses a wound. An old wound.

 

The sensitive pads of his fingers magnify every dip and ridge of Joker’s scars, and he’s mesmerized by them. The Joker’s scars remind Bruce of Gotham when he’d returned from the dead, a desolate, broken city brought back to life by people like Gordon. They remind him of Gotham as it is now, buried in sorrow and bathed by blood. They remind him of what could happen again in the future, new, fragile life and growth if its citizens persevere. They remind him of something else, but it— _she_ —is already fading from Bruce’s mind because he’s plunged his hands into the filth and darkness of his crime until he can hardly see what’s behind him, including her face. He doesn’t want to think of her again because if he does, he won’t be able to pick himself up, whole, as the same Bruce Wayne, ever again.

 

It might be too late for that, anyway. He wonders if the Joker, for all of his anarchy and chaos, could stand seeing Bruce in pieces when it is all said and done. His stomach rolls when he thinks that the Joker may not care at all. Bruce’s inner struggle and the demons he’s worked so hard to forget, a fear once suppressed, rise to the surface. It feels like a losing battle.

 

Bruce suddenly feels a hand wrap around his erection, and his thoughts stutter to a standstill. The Joker strokes his length, slender fingers touching the tip before sliding down, coated with precome. With a keen, Bruce leans into him. Heat rushes to his core and his hips cant forward, seeking more of Joker’s hand.

 

“Joker,” he strangles out, no other word coming to his mind but the name of the man pleasuring him.

 

“Leading a lonely life, Bats, hmm?” the Joker whispers through staggered breaths, proving he’s affected by this as much as Bruce is. “I’ve been depressed just thinking how long it must’ve been for you.”

 

“It’s that noticeable?” Bruce deadpans, his cock twitching in the Joker’s hand.

 

He feels the rise of the Joker’s smile against his cheek. “Just a little, Bats.”

 

As the Joker languidly strokes his cock, Bruce chokes on a groan. He’s beyond feeling any mortification that he’s putty in the Joker’s hands. No one has done this for him in years, not this _good_ , anyway, and this is the second time in just days. He tips his head back, mouth slightly gaping open in a voiceless cry, his eyes screwed shut as the Joker prepares him for orgasm at a tortuously, slow pace. He wonders if the Joker will draw this out for hours. He even hopes that he will. It doesn’t take him long to decide that the he would, indeed, do that if he could.

 

His stomach twists with an unharnessed wanting, a raw need to feel him and know without a doubt that he’s there. He lets his head fall onto the Joker’s shoulder. The Joker’s skin is wet and cool and human against his cheek, assuring him of the present. But it’s not enough to satisfy the yearning in his chest.

 

Bruce buries his face into the Joker’s neck and slides his hands up the Joker’s back until he meets with lean muscles. He curls his fingers into the knots, breathing in the Joker’s fresh, clean scent, his body weightless and boneless as the pleasant aroma washes over him. It’s addicting. The _Joker_ is addicting. So addicting that he’s trusting him, despite how foolish it is.

 

He wants the Joker to take him apart. He wants to take the Joker apart. He wants to let go. He wants the Joker to let go, separate their minds for a time from the chaos. He is letting go and it. Feels. Wonderful.

 

As if sensing Bruce’s surrender, Joker makes a sound of satisfaction his chest. Bruce is too far gone to care. His hips snap forward of their own accord as he gives in to the firm hand. He can’t remember when someone had invested in touching his body like this, but no, that’s not true.

 

The years he’d spent with Ducard—Ra’s—comes to mind. He had demanded Bruce let go of _everything_ , to overcome all fears and prove he was ready, worshipping Bruce’s body to get what he wanted in return. Not regularly, but it had been often enough that he’ll never forget, as if the randomness of it had been the entire point.

 

He tamps down the image before it can lock its ugly fingers on him like before. But it’s too late. The damage is done, the confusion crowding his sanity. The thoughts beckon him and he freezes, caught in a cycle he thinks he’s experienced before when he wasn’t careful.

 

The implications start falling into place. They’re overwhelming. They’re paralyzing. Was the chanting the result of sharing Ducard’s bed for a time? Had his training influenced him to start this dance with the Joker? Had he been conditioned to fall apart when the time came and he actually harbored feelings toward someone? Does he even want to know if he had?

 

What had Ducard done to him?

 

What had Ducard _done_?

 

He’s not sure how much time has passed before the Joker’s hand is at his face again, brushing away wet strands of his hair from his forehead

 

“Bats,” the Joker tsks. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ig- _nor-uh_ the person you’re kissing?”

 

Startled, Bruce lifts his eyes to find the Joker studying him. He opens his mouth to explain why he’d drifted off in thought but swallows the apology just as quickly. It burns going down, like he’s swallowed something hot and bitter.

 

He has nothing good to say about Ducard. He doesn’t want to give the Joker anything more that can be used against him. Like always, he has to keep his history with Ducard to himself. It’s a burden he alone must bear, even when Ra’s is creeping back into his consciousness without his consent.

 

Bruce mentally shakes himself to rid of him, but it’s no use. His dead mentor has stolen his focus. And that’s not the only thing.

 

Ducard’s eyes are on him and this intimate moment with the Joker. He can’t help but stare blankly ahead, paranoid and filled with dread that this feeling will ever go away.

 

“Bats,” the Joker growls.

 

Bruce blinks, barely registering the Joker shutting off the water. He knows without even looking that the moment is broken, the space between them a widening chasm. Unsurprisingly, it’s all his fault. And Ducard’s. Somehow, Ducard is to blame for this.

 

The Joker threads his fingers through Bruce’s hair—and yanks on it like he’s picking up a heavy bag off the floor.

 

Bruce cries out, hands springing to his head to ease the pain. “Stop it,” he rasps, looking up at Joker with hurt in his eyes.

 

The Joker eases his grip but doesn't let go. He narrows in on Bruce. “ _What_ is going on with you?” he demands. “Or do you even know?”

 

The contradiction of the Joker’s actions and his genuine curiosity drag Bruce back to reality.

 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes against his better judgement. He’s more than irritated with himself. He’s furious. He doesn’t like playing games like this. With anyone. He wants to blame Ra’s, but deep down he believes it can’t be anyone’s fault but his own. “This isn’t your...it’s...I’m sorry.”

 

The Joker frowns.

 

Bruce tears his gaze away, guilt-ridden and confused. The expression on Joker’s face bothers him but he can’t pinpoint why. He’s about to take a step back, make himself scarce for the time being, when the Joker yanks on his arm and pulls Bruce towards him. Startled, Bruce tries to resist but the Joker reaches out with his other hand and claws at Bruce’s injured side. He almost passes out from the pain and stumbles into the Joker’s chest.

 

Using the momentum, disgusted that he let himself be manhandled, Bruce slams the Joker into the wall. The Joker’s back thuds against it, his head bouncing forward.

 

“Stop it,” Bruce growls in his face.

 

He tries to twist out of his grasp but the Joker recovers quickly and takes both of their cocks in hand before Bruce can escape.

 

Bruce helplessly lurches forward, hissing a breath. The Joker’s eyes flash, his grip so painful that Bruce wavers on his feet and clutches the Joker’s hips to keep himself from falling. He thinks he can get out of the Joker’s grasp, but the other man’s hand tangles in his hair, pulling Bruce’s head back until he’s forced to submit and bare his neck. He gasps, suddenly lightheaded.

 

“What happened to you?” the Joker asks sharply. “Who damaged Brucie Boy in bed?”

 

Bruce looks at him, too stunned to speak. He couldn’t have...He couldn’t...He...

 

“What _happened_?” the Joker hisses again.

 

Thrown by the Joker’s intuitive questions, Bruce considers, for too long, what to say. How had the Joker figured it out so quickly? They hadn’t gotten far. Bruce never did, not even with his dates. He always pulled away after fulfilling _their_ needs, or avoided intimacy altogether. And when they’d been on the pavement, he’d been at the tail end of an adrenaline rush.

 

The Joker’s eyes teem with fury. Bruce doesn’t understand why he’s this angry. He hopes the anger isn’t actually directed at him, although it very well could be.

 

“And don’t give me that ‘sometimes things don’t work out’ shit, Bats,” the Joker snaps. “This is far more than that. You started some kind of chant that you had no control over. And that’s not the only thing.”

 

“What makes you think something happened to me?” Bruce finally says, deliberately avoiding the Joker’s observation.

 

He lifts his chin, daring him to pass judgement on this. His insecurity. His inability to focus. His hesitancy. Everything.

 

Under the Joker’s steady gaze, he shifts his body, not uncomfortably. The Joker’s fingers are completely folded around his fading erection and just the thought that he refuses to let go of Bruce makes him grow hard again. He makes a small noise at the stirring of blood, but the Joker ignores it.

 

“I _know_ broken when I see it,” the Joker says.

 

Something snaps inside of Bruce. No one was there to see when his parents died in front of his eyes, except for their murderer. Or when he nearly died on a mountain and then in a prison. Or when Ducard took advantage of him, using praise in bed as a way to assure his loyalty. When he learned he’d been betrayed by the League and expected to kill. When he couldn’t stop thinking about Rachel and drowned his sorrows in alcohol one night, trying to forget how much he still loved his dead best friend.

 

No one was there when he arrived at Wayne Enterprises, only to see Lucius already infected and limping grotesquely around his car like a cursed animal, dripping blood, drop-by-drop, onto the concrete.

 

He sneers at the Joker. “You know _nothing_.”

 

The Joker’s eyes reflect surprise before it quickly fades from sight. “It’s hard to tell when you’re wearing one of your masks. And then, on the pavement in the heat of the moment. But now, especially now...” The Joker’s gaze sweeps over his face and he lets go of his hair. “It shows. You keep surprising me, Bruce. No one really does that.”

 

Bruce pulls away. “I aim to please,” he grits out.

 

The Joker’s lips curl up. Jaw set and angry, Bruce slides his hands past the Joker’s hips to his buttocks and squeezes the soft and yielding flesh. The Joker hisses, momentarily put off guard. He pulls the Joker close and ruts his hips against him, taking out his frustration any way that he can.

 

The Joker's eyes widen and he immediately rolls his hips, encouraging him to move with him. “There’s my Bats.”

 

 _My Bats._ Hearing nothing but the roaring in his ears, Bruce sinks into the heated look the Joker gives him. Soon, the motion and sensations disarm them both. Bruce allows his head to drop and rest on that same place on the Joker’s shoulder. The Joker bows his head, leaning against him.

 

The Joker’s lips press into his ear and Bruce’s knees weaken, his body malleable under the Joker’s hands. He’d thought the Joker had been tired but he’d been wrong. The fact that it is now the Joker bearing some of his weight now proves just how exhausted Bruce really is. And how determined the Joker is to finish this.

 

He’s not sure he has the stamina the Joker thinks he has. He wants to prove that he does.

 

With great effort he pulls his head up and covers the Joker’s hand with one of his own, looking straight into his eyes, and guides them both. He narrows his focus, wanting the Joker to lose control, wanting to regain some of his own. What Ducard had nearly succeeded taking away from him in the bedroom.

 

Soon the Joker is reduced to a series of breathless cries, every calculated stroke of Bruce’s hand bringing him closer to orgasm. His own cock has fully swelled in anticipation and he thrusts into their hands, seeking more friction that only the Joker can provide. He sees on the Joker’s face that he’s close, seconds away. Wickedly, Bruce finds a pressure point on the Joker’s hand, forcing him to withdraw from his own arousal.

 

A sense of power washes over him that he doesn’t think he’s felt in years behind closed doors. He wants to see what the Joker will do when he’s unable to seek pleasure for himself and removes his hand from the Joker’s length, as well, latching instead onto Joker’s free wrist to prevent it from slipping downward. He drags the Joker’s arm up against the wall, holding it there, ignoring the pull at his ribs and the pain that follows.

 

The Joker’s pupils are completely blown as he stares at Bruce, his swollen lips parted and flecked with blood, hair messily plastered to his head. Bruce is pretty sure he looks just as wrecked. The Joker curls into him, groaning in his ear but never letting go of Bruce’s cock but handling it roughly. An eye for an eye, Bruce thinks.

 

“Bats,” the Joker says hoarsely. “ _Bruce.”_

 

It’s _his name_ , not the underlying begging, spoken so damn politely that drives Bruce over the edge.

 

He submits to the sensation and the sound of the Joker’s voice. He comes with a ragged shout, his vision whiting out as he shoots into the Joker’s hand. The Joker immediately follows him into orgasm, gasping into Bruce’s ear. He spills onto Bruce’s body while Bruce blindly satisfies him with steady strokes.

 

While they’re both still shattered and shaking and Bruce is already thinking about when they can do this again, Joker firmly grips his chin and pulls his face up. He locks lips with Bruce and bites down. Tasting blood and feeling the passion still pulsing between them, Bruce hungrily kisses back until the adrenaline fades. Soon, he slumps against the Joker and listens to him breathe through the aftershocks of orgasm.

  

His mind rattled, he starts to feel the chill that has settled uncomfortably on his wet skin. The Joker’s body shivers underneath his cheek. “Well, that was…” Bruce says, voice cracking. He’s surprised can speak at this point. “Can this be…?”

 

The Joker’s breath hitches, and he pulls away.

 

Bruce’s heart catches in his throat at the sudden loss. He isn’t sure what he’s done now, though it’s safe to say he did do something. He bites back a curse, unsure as to what he’d been planning to say, either, except to ask if they can drop enemy status for awhile and be for each other what no one else can.

 

The words lodge in his throat. It’s wishful thinking. Highly doubtful. _Crazy_.

 

He swallows, unwilling to give up the idea. “What I—”

 

“Hold on,” Joker interrupts.

 

He slips from Bruce’s grasp, and when Bruce looks up, the Joker is already gone. He wipes the blood of his lips and cleans himself again. After shutting off the water, he stares at the space where the Joker had stood with dawning realization. He’s lowering his defenses in front of the Joker, which, strangely enough, isn’t as frightening to him as forgetting they have to be careful around Gordon.

 

And what does that say about his state of mind? No matter what state it’s in, it’s no excuse for allowing this to happen with others on board.

 

Bruce sighs and drops his head in guilt or insatiable longing or both. He can’t say that he likes the hand Joker played, but he thinks it has worked out for the best. They can’t let things get out of hand anymore than this. _Bruce_ can’t, not while Gordon and his kids are with them. He won’t be able to look himself in the mirror the next day if they do.

 

Under no circumstances can he— _they_ —be this reckless again when the other are so close. He has to get some sleep in order to correctly process what’s happening between them. He believes if he doesn’t, if he can’t think with a clear head, that he’ll regret his actions. But he thinks of how much land there is to explore on the island, how vast it is, and knows this won’t be the last time that he finds himself in Joker’s arms.

 

He slumps into the seat, leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes must close at some point because he struggles to open them again when the Joker returns.

 

“Let me help,” the Joker says. “It’ll be faster.”

 

The Bat’s suit in Joker’s hand, and the cleaning supplies in his other, brings Bruce back to reality with a jolt.

 

He’s grateful for the assistance but makes Joker stand outside the stall to help, where he can help hold the somewhat cumbersome armor without getting any of the blood on his body. The filth from the past few days is caked on the suit in multiple layers but he works vigorously to clean every inch. It doesn’t take as long as he expected. With any luck, they’ll ward off Gordon’s suspicions.

 

Once they’re finished, Bruce hangs it up, then rinses and cleans the shower stall until it’s spotless. He shoots the Joker a warning look when he tries to help him. “You need a dry bandage,” he reminds him.

 

The Joker blinks at him. “Later.”

 

With an exasperated sigh, Bruce takes the towel that the Joker offers him and, after drying, wraps it around his hips. “Not later. Now.”

 

The Joker says nothing. He looks nowhere in the room but at Bruce, in particular, at the way the towel hangs past his waist.

 

Bruce knows he should feel more awkward in this state but he has never been self-conscious about his body being on full display to lovers before—not that the Joker is his lover but, then again, he doesn’t really know what they are at this point—and he isn’t going to start now.

 

“Sit on the bed,” Bruce says tiredly.

 

Though the reluctance shows on Joker’s face, he takes one look at Bruce and limps over to the bed and sits. Bruce gingerly kneels on the floor to remove the wet bandage from Joker’s leg. He pats the sutured wound dry with a corner of his own towel and wraps it this time.

 

When he’s done, he goes to the narrow closet. He has enough clothing to give Gordon a change of clothing and Jimmy a nightshirt, and extra shirts for them to layer with when the temperatures drop. If he can locate a belt and cut notches into it with a knife, Barbie can wear one of the extra shirts that Alfred keeps here as a spare, or as a dress. There’s even a robe she can use.

 

After grabbing boxers for the both of them, Bruce lets the Joker choose his clothing first.

 

The Joker takes out a sharply pressed, long-sleeved, white shirt and tan slacks. He smiles, looking pleased with his finds. “Your wardrobe is leaning on the dismal side, Bats, but at least you have something other than black.”

 

Bruce doesn’t know what to do when he hands the clothing to _him_ , except to decline. “I’ll wear the black.”

 

Joker sends him an exasperated look. “And here I thought this little excursion on the yacht meant you were taking a vacation. _Take_ them.”

 

“Vacation,” Bruce snorts.

 

When the Joker raises a brow in challenge, Bruce rolls his eyes and complies. The thought that Joker wants him to wear the white shirt he most likely wants to wear makes Bruce’s brain misfire. He doesn’t want to irritate or frustrate the man, not when the Joker has proven to be volatile. He can agree to something as simple as this.

 

He dresses in silence, gritting his teeth as the pain comes and goes with each movement. He leaves his shirt unbuttoned at the top, unwilling to use his arms more than he has to. When he glances up to see if the Joker’s finished dressing, he looks twice before he can stop himself. The jeans the Joker chose to wear would fit Bruce like a glove, but they look better on the the other man, loose and hanging on his hips. The black shirt does, too, the solid, dark colors humanizing the Joker. At least the jeans don’t fall off the Joker’s hips. Apparently he’d managed to find a belt.

 

A broken part of Bruce’s heart fuses with another broken piece without his knowledge, making one. “Ready?” Bruce asks.

 

The Joker’s smile fails to reach his eyes, and Bruce wonders if the make-up has always hidden more than his scars.

 

“Everything okay?” Bruce asks.

 

It’s surreal. He’s asking the Joker, a man who cares nothing about other people’s pain—besides maybe Bruce’s—if _he_ is okay. He takes a deep breath to smother a laugh, reminding himself that the Joker is human, has been a patient at a psychiatric facility up until the outbreak. Although Bruce knows the Joker is a psychopath, his instincts are telling him that something is off with this man, if one could call it that when Joker is already so...unique. But whether this is good or bad, it’s too early to tell.

 

Or, maybe it’s simply his compassion misleading him into believing things about the Joker that aren’t true. After all, it is one of his weaknesses, according to Ducard.

 

The Joker shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ll let you go first,” he says. “I’m not sure that ol’ Gordo isn’t going to change his mind and try and kill me.”

 

“He’s not going to kill you,” Bruce says.

 

“But he could try.”

 

“He’s _not_.”

 

“He will when you’re not looking.”

 

“I’ll always be looking,” Bruce says.

 

The Joker stares at him in the ensuing silence, his lips curving into a lazy grin and his eyes teeming with delight.

 

The implications of what he’d just said hits him. Bruce groans. “No, I didn’t.”

 

He’s relieved that he doesn’t actually facepalm himself. He thinks he’s had more than his fair share of embarrassment for one day.

 

“Oh, yes, Brucie boy,” the Joker says. “You _did_. You just hit on me.”

 

“Stop twisting everything I say.”

 

“I don’t twist things that are already the way I want them,” Joker says. “Not usually, anyway. That was clearly you, Bruce Wayne, flirting with _me_.”

 

“Was that because you felt obligated?” Bruce asks.

 

“I must have missed the memo that said we have to use non-sequiturs today,” the Joker says. “But don’t worry, I can improvise. Was _what_ because I felt obligated?”

 

Bruce cocks his head, unsure that he should even ask. “The shower. My...my butler.”

 

The Joker narrows in on him. “Do you think I kissed you and then helped you clean your suit to apologize for saying careless things about…” He pauses, then says in a whisper, “ _Alfred_?”

 

Bruce can’t tell if the Joker is mocking him or not. He hesitates. “Yes.”

 

“Do you want it to be?

 

“Did you?” Bruce asks, growing exasperated.

 

Joker’s smile widens. “Have you ever noticed that I’m sparing you from _more_ heartache and trouble and all the personal angst that you love to beat yourself up with by not, uh, actually answering your questions?”

 

Bruce falls silent. “That’s a fucked up way of putting it.”

 

“Not from my end, Peaches. My method seems to be working.”

 

“You are not calling me that in front of Gordon.”

 

“So privately is okay?”

 

“Yes—I mean no! I’m not…” Bruce huffs and opens the door. “Just...no. Just be quiet.”

 

“Only if you answer a question for me,” Joker says, following him.

 

Bruce sighs. “Fine, but make it quick.” He sees Gordon coming down the ladder from the corner of his eye.

 

“It won’t be too intrusive, I assure you,” the Joker says.

 

“Just get on with it,” Bruce mutters.

 

“Have you ever had a long-term relationship?” the Joker asks. “If so, was it successful? Did you even _do_ anything with those models that you dragged with you everywhere and then took home to your million dollar, king-sized bed, other than _maybe_ making it to third base? I know that’s three questions, Bats, not one, but you had to expect this from me. As you know, I never follow the rules.”

 

Bruce opens his mouth to answer, but then he catches the look in the Joker’s eyes, and realizes Gordon is already there beside them and listening. He slowly closes his mouth instead of snapping it shut like a panicking fool, and _does not blush_.

 

The Joker nods, looking pleased with himself. “I thought so.”

 

Gordon clears his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

 

“No, no,” Joker says with a careless wave of his hand. “I’m done here.”

 

Joker begins to whistle and makes his way over to where the crates of water are stacked. Bruce stares after him.

 

“What was that all about?” Gordon murmurs.

 

“I’m not sure,” Bruce says. And he really isn’t. That, so far, has been the most bizarre conversation he’s ever had with the man.

 

“Please be careful, Bruce,” Gordon warns.

 

“I’m trying to be,” Bruce says honestly. Maybe too honestly. “But I don’t think I’m processing things like I normally would.”

 

“None of us are, not even him, though he probably doesn’t realize it,” Gordon says, glancing over to where the Joker is watching the bay. “I don’t care who you are, or what personality disorder you may have, change and loss at this magnitude does something to the mind, as does post-traumatic stress. I’ve been in the force long enough to see that. We’re in this together,” Gordon says, then mutters in a low voice, “Probably imprinted on each other while we fought to stay alive, too. A survival mechanism.”

 

When Bruce furrows his brow, Gordon shrugs. “Read that in a book once.”

 

If it’s true, it explains why Gordon hasn’t actually verbalized his concern about the Joker being on the same boat as his children. It’s obvious to Bruce, now, that he isn’t the only one who’s changed.

 

Bruce can’t help but wonder if they caused this in themselves. A condition similar to Stockholm Syndrome in the sense that they were thrown, somewhat forcibly, into the same situation. Making them each a perpetrator and a victim.

 

“I suppose it’s possible,” Bruce says.

 

Gordon frowns. “What I’m trying to say is that you have to take care of yourself. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

 

Bruce tenses at the fatherly concern. This is the last thing he wants to talk about. “Jim, I know my limits.”

 

He knows them like the back of his hand and he’s stretching them close to snapping.

 

“Son, you have to get some rest,” Gordon insists. “As much as I hate to say it, because of the amount of pressure it puts on you, we’re depending on you to help us survive out here, Bruce.”

 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Jim. You could do it,” Bruce assures him. “When you have to survive, you do.”

 

Gordon shakes his head. “I may have a decade and a half on you, but you’ve apparently spent a long time honing skills I could only dream of having.” He stops, a look of contemplation on his face that piques Bruce’s curiosity.

 

“What is it?” Bruce asks.

 

Gordon’s mustache twitches, and Bruce can see he’s trying hard not to laugh. “I’m just thinking about how all of this would read in the news. Court forgives Gotham’s dimwitted—”

 

Bruce grins in spite of himself, in spite of the losses, in spite of the world ending.

 

“—wastrel, pompous ass, billionaire playboy Wayne’s speeding tickets for demonstrating unexpected courage and closeted survival skills.” Gordon shakes his head. “What I’d give to see that.”

 

Bruce laughs, amused by Gordon’s active imagination in the midst of an apocalypse. “‘Pompous ass’ is a little harsh, though, don’t you think?”

 

“I’m not so sure,” Gordon says. “I paid attention to all of the headlines, just to read the articles that mentioned you because I wanted every chance I could get to win the bets circulating the office. There were some doozies, alright. I wish I knew how you did it all.” Sadness fills his eyes. “But who knows when we’ll even have operational newspapers again. Years, maybe. Newspapers aren’t the only thing. Son, how will your family’s company survive?”

 

Although Bruce believes Wayne Enterprises will survive, but in a lesser way, he refuses to answer a question that depresses him. He looks down at the flooring beneath his feet, instead. “Seven,” he murmurs. “I spent seven years learning and practicing what I know.”

 

“For crying out loud, Bats,” the Joker calls out from behind them. “You have the conversational maturity of a teenager. Stop deflecting.”

 

Gordon looks at Bruce in confusion. Bruce huffs and shakes his head, otherwise ignoring the remarks.

 

“Will you tell me about it?” Gordon asks Bruce. “Your time away from Gotham?”

 

Bruce offers him a small smile. “Eventually. As long as you and the kids take the bedroom.”

 

“You can’t give up everything for us, Mr. Wayne,” Gordon says.

 

But Bruce can and most likely will, in the end.

 

“I won’t be able to sleep there, anyway,” he argues. “And I slept on the ground for years. I’m used to it.” He’ll have to stick close to the Joker at all times, and he’d rather do so _outside_ of the bedroom, so that the kids can be kept safe. “You and your kids need the privacy.”

 

“If it will give you peace of mind…”

 

“It will.”

 

“I’ll be minding the wheel for awhile, then,” Gordon says, and starts climbing up the ladder.

 

As soon as Gordon’s back is turned, Bruce succumbs to the exhaustion he didn’t want the older man to see. His vision blurs and his feet are unsteady as he makes his way over to the widest bench. He takes two pillows, one for his back and the other to hug to his side, and sits down. He stretches his legs in front of him on the bench. The Joker is already there, his back against the opposite end so that he faces him, somehow knowing he has to stay that close to him for Bruce to fall asleep.

 

“You’re not going to tie me up? I assume you have extra rope around here,” Joke says, craning his head to look around.

 

Bruce shrugs. “Knowing you, you’ll get out of any knot I make. Doesn’t make sense to waste good rope, either. Besides, we made a deal.”

 

“You’re actually going to trust me.”

 

“It’s either that, or I kill you prematurely,” Bruce deadpans. “I didn’t think you wanted that.”

 

“True. I didn’t come this far just to die by your hand, or make you spitting mad.” The Joker pauses. “And I’ll be the first to admit that I like where things seem to be heading between us.”

 

Their eyes meet. Bruce swallows the lump in his throat. He never expected that much honesty from the Joker. Not that he isn’t grateful that the Joker seems to be telling the truth. He is. He just hopes that the Joker doesn’t expect _him_ to do the same. He’ll only disappoint him because if there’s one thing that Bruce isn’t, it’s being honest about his feelings—for anyone.

 

As if sensing his inability to find a reply, the Joker breaks the silence by holding up two unopened bottles of water. He hands him one, as well as a piece of bread he pulls out from nowhere. “Here,” he says.

 

“Thank you,” Bruce says softly, touched that he’d thought of him.

 

Bruce can’t pull his eyes away, especially when Joker tugs at his shirt to straighten it across his chest and then tilts his head back to take a drink. He swears there’s a hunger for something other than food etched in the Joker’s tired features as he studies Bruce with half-lidded eyes. Bruce stares back, taking small sips of water one at a time and eating pieces of bread he’s torn off the crust in between, like they’re a delicacy.

 

He doesn’t want to drink all of the water but he makes himself finish half of it before capping the bottle. He’s about to close his eyes but almost as an afterthought he reaches out to check the Joker’s leg. The Joker puts his hand up to stop him.

 

“It’s fine,” the Joker insists. He licks his lips from corner to corner with a single swipe of his tongue, then chews his bottom lip as if in silent debate with himself. “It’s sore but I’ll let it rest like you asked me to. Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

 

Bruce is slow to nod and the features of the Joker, the man he’d risked his own life to save and would do so again, swim before him. Still, he fights it. “Don’t let me sleep longer than two hours.”

 

He can possibly make do with less, but he wants to be as alert as he can once they reach the islands.

 

“You should lie down with one of those pillows,” Joker offers. “For a good little Bat nap.”

 

“No. Don’t want to sleep too long,” he mutters, hating the way his body is demanding he shut down. “Besides, I need to sit up.”

 

The Joker’s lips twist into a smirk. “So you _are_ hurting you more than you let on.”

 

“I hate fluffy pillows, if you must know,” he grumbles, cross that he fell right into that one.

 

“Right,” the Joker says. “What about blankets? It’s getting chilly out here. You’ll need one. Wouldn’t want to test your billionaire sensibilities too much.”

 

Bruce closes his eyes. “No blanket. Too warm. Makes me sleep longer.”

 

“Huh. Well, uh, I think that’s the _point_ ,” the Joker says. “To think that I once took you for a five-star hotel kinda guy. I’m going to be nice and get you a blanket, anyway.”

 

“Don’t need a nursemaid, Joker,” Bruce mumbles, trying not to slouch as darkness encroached. “Don’t be nice. Leave me alone.”

 

“‘Don’t be nice,’ he says,” the Joker mimics with a snort.

 

———

 

Gordon isn’t comfortable leaving a sleeping Bruce Wayne in the Joker’s presence, but he has no choice. He’s driving the boat and watching over his children. He’s all his children have left in the world, other than the Batman. Who else does Bruce have to watch over _him_?

 

However, his current responsibilities won’t prevent him from teaching Barbie how to watch the wheel after he engages the autopilot. Or telling Jimmy to stick close to his sister. Or checking in on someone he cares for like a son.

 

Just for a moment.

 

He steps away and leans over the edge of the railing, looking down at the couch where Bruce is sleeping. And where the Joker should be, too.

 

Only the Joker isn’t. In fact, he’s nowhere to be seen.

 

Gordon swears. This isn’t good. He can’t leave the cockpit but he has to find the psychopath. But there isn’t another choice. Just as he’s about to turn around and shut off the yacht, the door to the small bedroom opens.

 

The Joker steps out and he’s holding something. A blanket. Two of them. One of which he’s draping over Bruce’s still form.

 

Gordon pinches the bridge of his nose. This day can’t possibly get more bizarre than it already is.

 

“Have something on your mind, Commish?” the Joker drawls, glancing up at him when he’s done tucking the blanket around Bruce.

 

“You were gone,” he accuses him.

 

“Can’t a guy be, uh, _nice_ around here?” the Joker mutters, taking a seat at the other end of the couch.

 

“Is that what this is?” Gordon asks.

 

“Just thought if Bats could actually get some decent sleep, he’ll be easier to live with,” the Joker says. “You have _no_ idea-uh how _brooding_ he can be, do you?”

 

“No, but I have a sneaking suspicion that you do,” he says calmly.

 

The Joker’s lips twitch at the corners. “That I do. I think he’s actually more messed up than I am. We’ve had _days_ of _discovery_ , you know.”

 

And that’s when Gordon sees the truth as clear as day on his face. The Joker has been getting to know Bruce well.

 

One of the most inconvenient things about being a detective is that, sometimes, you figure things out you wish you hadn’t. Such as in this case.

 

But he can’t blame Bruce for it. He’s not sure he can blame the Joker, either. It’s obvious that the lives of the two men are tied together for the moment, if not for a very long time. Bruce— _Batman_ —is too stubborn and morally grounded to let the Joker out of his sight or escape to Gotham unattended. And Bruce has a way and a handsomeness about him that would be hard for any unattached person to ignore, even the Joker.

 

Gordon won’t judge Bruce, either. Not if this is the way the younger man can experience comfort when he would otherwise be alone, even if most people consider it a sick and twisted love affair. Even if it is dangerous and stupid and unhealthy on a multitude of levels. But, no, Gordon won’t judge. Not Batman.

 

He doubts that the people who would judge Bruce are even alive. Only the survivors remain. Survivors who’ve had to do terrible things themselves. The continent’s population has had to have diminished tremendously. He won’t be surprised if less than five percent remains once the threat is over, if it ever ends. Really, who does Bruce have left to care for or protect? Should the man expect to be lonely the rest of his life? It doesn’t seem fair, but Bruce knows more than most that life isn’t fair.

 

Besides, Gordon’s almost certain that he’s the one to blame. Why else would Bruce entertain intimate relations with the psychopath if it isn’t to keep Gordon’s family safe? It’s just like the Batman to do all that he can to protect them. But it isn’t Bruce’s physical body he’s most concerned about. It’s his mental health. The mind that the Joker obviously wants to manipulate and has already.

 

If Gordon’s heart wasn’t already broken after watching his wife die by her own hand to spare him the deed, it is now. No one should have to sacrifice that much.

 

He knows what he has to do, even if it kills him. He has to push Bruce away. Bruce can’t stay to help them. Gordon will have to convince him that they’ll be fine on their own. It could take a month or two, but if he can prove to Bruce that they’re capable of surviving without him on the island for awhile, maybe that will ease the burden on the younger man’s shoulders.

 

Then again, if he pushes Bruce away, he may leave upset and who knows what trouble he’ll meet up with and what state of mind he’ll be in when he does. Maybe he _is_ safer with them. And if he’s honest, Gordon isn’t sure he can protect his own children in the time of an emergency. He’d rather have another adult around. An adult that is _not_ a psychopath.

 

This is like one of those Rubik’s Cubes. A puzzle that is almost impossible to solve. And between that and the damn riddle about the fox, Gordon is pretty sure he’ll go crazy trying to figure it all out.

 

“If you hurt him, I swear I will hunt you down,” Gordon threatens.

 

The Joker merely cracks a smile. “The funny thing is that he said the same thing about you.”

 

“And what did you tell him?”

 

The Joker looks him straight in the eye. “What he wanted me to say. What he needed to hear,” he says coolly.

 

Gordon bites back an angry reply. It was manipulation, then. “Was _anything_ you said to him the truth?”

 

The Joker’s eyes fall on Bruce, who is young and vulnerable as he sleeps.

 

Gordon can’t help but see in Wayne, now more than ever, the small, orphaned boy at the station that he’d comforted like a son.

 

“Did you tell him the truth?” Gordon asks again.

 

The Joker’s lips curl into a familiar, dangerous smile. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and find out, won’t we?” he says mockingly.

 

“Daddy?” Jimmy’s voice calls from behind him.

 

“Yes, Jimmy,” Gordon says. He never looks back at his own son, his gaze sweeping from the Joker to the man they call the Bat, who is far more vulnerable than he’d thought.

 

“Is Mr. Wayne okay?” Jimmy’s small voice trembles.

 

Gordon locks eyes with the Joker, determined to wait until he has a more definitive answer, if that’s even possible coming from a psychopath. “That’s not up for me to decide,” he says.

 

God help whoever tries to hurt Bruce next. Gordon is not in a forgiving mood. He’s already lost one member of his family, not to mention his friends and others on the force. He doesn’t know if Bullock and Montoya made it, or Stephens. He hasn’t seen any of them since the second day.

 

The Joker must see it—the loss, the grief, the resilience, the determination, the _rage_ —in his eyes. His smile drops and he gives Gordon a curt nod.

 

“Daddy?” Jimmy calls out.

 

“He’s fine, son,” Gordon says after a moment. It’s another lie, another truth he has to twist for the sake of others. “He’s going to be just fine.”

 

When the Joker takes a seat on the other end of the couch beside Bruce, Gordon is far from being comforted. But there is nothing for him to do but go back to the wheel, pilot the boat, watch his back—and remind himself that Bruce is doing his best with what life has handed to him, just like they all are.

 

And, at the same time, remember to trust the Batman, his friend, despite the cracks he’s beginning to see in Bruce’s worn and fragile armor.

 

When he’s at the wheel, Jimmy peering over the counsel, Barbie pulls something from her pocket. She flicks it open, jaw firming while she inspects it. It’s several inches long, serrated edges.

 

So it’s not a regular pocket knife.

 

Gordon has no idea where she’d gotten the weapon, he realizes numbly, and his ears roar. “Barbie,” he says in a low voice. “Who gave you that?”

 

When she stares at him without fear, he’s reminded of his own stubbornness—and the wife he’s lost.

 

“Who said someone gave it to me?” she says, lifting her chin.

 

He sighs. “Where did you get it?”

 

“The last house we were at,” she admits. “When you went downstairs, I...I was afraid I’d be the only one left to protect Jimmy.”

 

He thinks for a moment, blows out a breath that shakes more than he wants to admit. “We’ll have to go over how to use it safely.”

 

There’s a measure of relief in her eyes as she nods. “Okay. May I ask Bruce?”

 

Gordon swallows, hating the thought of his baby girl, who is no longer a child, learning how to wield a knife. To draw blood. To fend for herself and her little brother. “Tomorrow.”

 

She hesitates. “The Joker, too? He’s good with knives.”

 

They both stare at the knife in her hand, but he sees faces on paper with sloppy red circles drawn around them and a pile of dust and debris that had once been a warehouse and a person with a promising future ahead of her.

 

Wordlessly, he takes the weapon from her, his resourceful, too smart for her own good daughter, and closes it before giving it back. “I think it would be best if we leave him out of this one,” he says.

 

She sighs but pockets the weapon.

 

He returns to the wheel and stares straight ahead, grateful for his son, whose warm body presses against his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of suicide
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Reviews feed my inspiration! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my delay in posting, everyone. Thank you, michael_was_filled_with_self_loathing for looking over this chapter for me! 
> 
> Just so you know before you begin reading, I used the Bhutanese (Dzongkha) word for “no,” in this chapter. I didn’t include the actual written form, but rather what is closest to its phonetic form— “men.” Any other phrases will be translated in the end notes.

 

“I see the island!”

 

“Shut up, Jimmy. There’s no way you can see anything that far away in this fog.”

 

“I could’ve sworn we had another half mile before we...Joker, let me check the GPS again.”

 

“Hate to break it to you, Commish, but it, uh…”

 

“It _what_?”

 

“It, uh…”

 

“…”

 

“...broke.”

 

“That’s impossible. This is Wayne’s tech.”

 

“Like I said before, it’s... _this_.”

 

“This? What’s _this_?”

 

“The fog, Dad. He means the fog.”

 

“Like I said. _This_.”

 

“That’s awfully vague, even coming from you.”

 

“I’m hurt, Gordo.”

 

“Somehow, I highly doubt it.”

 

“For what it’s worth, _it_ gives even _me_ the creeps.”

 

“I don’t believe in...”

 

“Sirens of the deep?”

 

“Superstitions.”

 

“And I don’t believe in seeing _islands_ that aren’t _there_ , either, _Jimmy_.”

 

“But Babs! I saw it!”

 

“You’re just trying to get attention.”

 

“Joker, let me take a look at it anyway.”

 

“Even though, uh, it’s a precious waste of your time?”

 

“No, I’m not!”

 

“You are, too, Jimmy!”

 

“Damn. You’re right. It went haywire.”

 

“More like... _batty_. Guess we’re a little lost, now, huh?”

 

“But I did see it! It’s right there. Why won’t anyone believe me?”

 

“Jimmy, you couldn’t even see well enough in front of you to tie your shoe a minute ago. How do you expect us to believe you saw the island?”

 

“I’m not lying! I saw it!”

 

“Dad, will you tell him to tone it down? I’m tired. This fog is the worst.”

 

“Fog can’t make you tired, silly.”

 

“Look. Joker. I could’ve sworn we were headed in the right direction before this set in—”

 

“I didn’t say it did, Jimmy—Hey, give that back! I was trying to read!”

 

“Thought you were too tired.”

 

“You’re such a child. Dad, tell him to stop!”

 

“Joker, check the compa—“

 

“—the compass? It’s _spinning_ , like my head-uh is spinning, listening to your baby birds. So, unless you’re cloned, uh, several times over, Gordo, I don’t think—“

 

“Dad!”

 

“Just a minute, Barbie.”

 

“Tell Jimmy to give me back my book. And tell him—”

 

“It’s Bruce's book, Stupid, not yours—”

 

“See? He’s so immature. Tell him to stop!”

 

“Barbie, we’re all tired. But if you don’t keep quiet, you’ll disturb Mr. Wayne—”

 

“Nononono. Bother Brucie Boy? We can’t let that- _tuh_ happen.”

 

Bother Brucie Boy?

 

Brucie Boy.

 

_Bruce._

_Bruce._

_Bruce._

_Wake up._

_Wake up._

_We need you._

_They need you._

_Need you—_

 

“—All right, all right,” Bruce answers with a groan. Sleep is too satisfying for him to pry his eyes open just yet, but the voice is familiar to him. “Give me a minute.”

 

When nothing, not even a high-pitched laugh, follows, Bruce assumes he’d said the wrong thing. Had he offended the man by ignoring him?

 

“Come on, Jok—” His voice cuts off as he lifts himself up on one elbow and squints at the end of the bench, where the Joker should be sitting, waiting for him.

 

The seat—is empty.

 

His heart drops, and a sickening feeling of “I told you so” grows in its place like a bad weed. He’d known better than to trust the Joker at his word. He’d known—yet he had ignored his instincts. And why?

 

Bruce has no damn clue.

 

“Joker?”

 

Bruce twists his neck around the other way, but he can hardly see a thing, except...he _can_ see someone. A gray form moving along the edge of the cockpit, but without the tell-tale sound of footsteps. He studies it for a moment. His eyes widen.

 

No, not someone. Something.

 

The shape transfixes him, its sides spread out not unlike bat wings, floating above the floor in exaggerated movements. It descends from within the cockpit, where the others are, in a compelling, slow-moving spiral.

 

His heart skips a beat. This murky, dark and dangerous looking thing—is alive?

 

Have the others seen it? Where are they? Why hasn’t Joker answered him? Other questions stick to the roof of his mouth, his tongue clumsy as he watches it, swirling and opaque, a mystical dream, falling over the boat, its goal apparent. It’s coming for _him_.

 

The shape doesn’t touch him, not yet, but the hairs on his arms stand on end like it does. He can imagine what it feels like, for the temperature drops about twenty degrees in mere seconds. He tries to brace himself against it, but he can’t, stopped by the wall of the boat against his back. It ebb and flows, a gaseous liquid but looming as if a shrouded figure, then falling away like a wave. It studies him from a few short feet away, scraping against his body without brushing over it at all, as if in an effort to memorize every inch of his flesh. It towers over him, like a ghoulish bear or a formless soul he’s read in ancient fairy tales through the years, growing larger by the second, shaking itself all around Bruce until it’s fuller.

 

Richer.

 

Darker.

 

And beautiful.

 

Against his good sense, he doesn’t look away from it, and his heart hammers in his chest in fear or anticipation or maybe both. He can’t be sure. He’s not sure about anything. The last several days—the last week—chaos has existed in his mind, leaving him a shadow of what he once was.

 

His emotions run strong like a wild river beneath his skin, mixing with others he has experienced before. The ones brought into existence by the lingering nightmare of when they’d escaped the infected, and his desires and pure want for what he can’t have.

 

Intimacy.

 

The comfort of physical touch.

 

It’s all too soon, fusing with feelings he couldn’t deal with then or now, even if he had time to process them. If he allows them to consume him, he won’t be in any position to lead the people he cares about. He slows himself down, stubbornly regulating every breath for the sake of the children on board, despite the unknown, and his own shock and confusion.

 

He has no idea what this is—and if it shocked the living daylights out of the others—but if it has come for him, like Ducard had—then he is the one in danger, not them. And if Jimmy and Barbie happen to see anything but assurance from Bruce, it could upset the children more than they are already.

 

He can’t be the weakest link on this boat with the Joker around. It’s unacceptable.

 

The shape approaches him, appearing as if it’s leaning into his personal space. Like the Joker does, he thinks.

 

“What is this?” he whispers.

 

_Bruce._

 

His breath hitches. For a moment, he thinks someone from within the air is speaking to him, but it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the drifting essence. It weaves in and out, around him, so he can’t be sure, but...air doesn’t talk.

 

Air.

 

Doesn’t.

 

Talk.

 

_Bruce._

 

“Bloody hell,” he whispers, borrowing a phrase from Alfred. He strains his ear after the second time his name is spoken and is relieved when the voice speaks for a third time, clearly coming from above as if from the cockpit, although he could’ve sworn he had seen a hand form in the mist.

 

He turns his head, grimacing at his own uselessness and paranoia. He can’t hide from the anomaly—there’s simply no where to run. But old habits die hard and as if he were a kid again, trapped in the alley, desperate to distance himself from the memories of his parents crumpled on the ground in death, he raises a hand to shield himself from it. Still, tendrils curl around his fingers and snake up his arm. They flow like water but in a gaseous form, and he can’t help but imagine them gathering on his most vulnerable places, barricading him from the rest of the world. Jimmy and Barbie. Gordon. The Joker.

 

“Please, don’t,” he protests, the thudding of his heart overcoming each whispered word. He leans on his training to focus and steady his pulse. “No—“

 

_Don’t be afraid, Bruce._

_I want you here._

 

He’s helpless to it as it envelops him, marking him like a tattoo would, except the design doesn’t hold. It spins and cascades and retreats, then overpowers his body once more, traveling further up his bared flesh, to his neck. It stays like this for seconds, or minutes. Bruce loses count.

 

He realizes, then, that he’s been holding his breath for who knows how long, without even knowing. His lungs, desperate for air, scream at him for oxygen. He lifts his chin but is unwilling to break his concentration. His scientifically trained mind wants to believe it's a weather-induced form. Another, more-innate part of him describes it as an alien entity without a second thought.

 

A faint gust of wind blows against the base of his neck. He can’t hold back a shiver, his skin prickling and hair standing on end by the distraction. “You want me here,” he says breathlessly, daring it to reply.

 

 _Bruce_.

 

The call is closer, beside his ear and crawling into it like an unwanted bug. His shoulders snap back with tension. He knows, now, that he isn’t hearing things. Whatever this is—it’s him and him alone doing it.

 

This is Gotham at its worst—Batman at his worst—suffering from a virus that is destroying the world in a way he never thought would be possible. His perception—his ability to discern what is real and surreal—must not exist anymore. Maybe he had been infected but years as Batman changed the way the virus works. Maybe the virus is affecting him differently than other people, bringing a nightmare to life. Maybe his life as Batman and this new, chaotic life with the Joker at his side has tipped the balance in his head, once and for all.

 

Maybe this isn’t anything but his own insanity, calling his number. Time’s up, he thinks.

 

But he can’t even find the door to the bedroom in the darkness. The Joker is somewhere close by. He has to be. Bruce simply isn’t able to see him.

 

“Joker, it's not funny?” he calls out in a rasp, the name spilling from his lips as a question he’d never intended it to be.

 

What makes Bruce even think he can trust the Joker to answer any question, after leaving his seat, is beyond him. But a part of him remains naively hopeful the Joker will cooperate with him now that they’ve seemed to have reached...an agreement.

 

The presence hovers around him until he sees nothing, not even the hand he raises in front of his face. He blinks in an effort to clear his vision, frustrated that if he gets up, he’ll likely trip over something. He blinks several times in quick succession, but it’s no use. He’s as blind as a bat, he thinks.

 

“Joker? Where are you?” he asks.

 

_Bruce._

 

At least it isn’t the nickname. He can deal with being crazy, or with animated air, but he draws the line at being called Brucie Boy, a callback to his days at the university.

 

But before he can wipe the remaining sleep from his eyes and decipher, clearly, what he sees around him, and what the voices around him are saying, something even more suffocating and thick weaves itself into the air. It’s murky, nearly obliterating the light.

 

He peers through the narrow slits of his eyes, realization dawning as the form stretches across the ship, leaking over its sides, no longer fixated on Bruce but fluid in its own escape.

 

How could he have been so stupid? It’s not a presence. Not a twisted creation of his own making. It’s fog. A heavy, ever-shifting, ever-moving, unwanted blanket of fog.

 

How are they going to navigate through this and reach the island safely?

 

“Gordon,” Bruce calls out. “Stop the boat.”

 

Like the Joker, Gordon doesn’t answer.

 

Bruce swings his feet over the edge of the bench. He braces himself against the remaining, unearthly atmosphere as it falls over him. It sticks to him like smoke, weaving its way into his hair and wrapping itself around his worn muscles. It filters through his consciousness and the bloodbathed nightmare he’d just been reliving, tendrils not of fog but of memory and horror crowding him, until it’s impossible to shake the vestiges from his mind. He doesn’t understand how it holds him like this, capturing him in a figurative vise. His mind is all but frozen as he sits and waits for the form to reveal itself, to speak again and show itself to the others on the boat.

 

When time passes in silence, he leans forward, straining his muscles, gasping for air. He stills to catch his breath, but his heart races at a gallop.

 

What is happening to him?

 

_Wake up, Bruce._

 

“Dammit, I’m trying,” he says, sucking in a large breath. “But you won’t leave me the hell alone.”

 

He rubs his eyes, closing them when the fog worsens and seeps into his vision. “Gordon, we can’t navigate through this.”

 

At the continuing silence, he clenches his jaw in frustration. Why isn’t Gordon responding? They have to stop the boat and wait it out. It would be the perfect time to get more shut-eye, if he didn’t mind the nightmares.

 

_You’ve always been a deep sleeper when the moment counts, haven’t you?_

 

“I can’t afford to sleep,” he counters.

 

_Bruce._

_It’s time._

 

He opens his eyes hesitantly. “Time to go? We can’t. Not in this fog.”

 

_Bruce._

 

He looks for the Joker, an impossible task when every inch of the boat is obscure, and finds no one there with him in the darkness.

 

_You have to find it._

 

The clown must be in the cockpit, close enough to still be able to hear Bruce.

 

“Find what?” Bruce asks. “Gordon?”

 

_Them._

 

He grows cold. “Them?”

 

The whisper elicits a dark memory of an interrogation. It creeps to the forefront, the fear of Rachel’s death thrumming through his veins for a second time, and the bitterness of the Joker’s lie, an exchange of truths that had destroyed him, running strong alongside it.

 

If it hadn’t been for the mystery that had slapped him in the face upon awakening, his world would be shrinking.

 

_Oh, Bruce. I’m sorry._

 

He regrets many things those years ago. And afterwards…

 

He had not been at the funeral but for a moment, had stood too far behind the shrouded figures of her mother and aunt for them to see him paying his respects. But his distance in social circles hadn’t stopped there. Much to Alfred’s dismay, Bruce had withdrawn from everyone as much as possible.

 

No wonder the press believes Bruce Wayne to be as cool and reserved as the Batman in recent years.

 

_I’m sorry._

 

He shakes his head, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

 

An earnest plea from Jimmy to his father cuts into the silence.

 

“I saw it, Dad. I’m not lyin.’”

 

“I know. I’m sorry, son…”

 

_I’m sorry, too._

 

“Gordon?” Bruce looks up, but he still can’t see Jim or the boy through the fog. He takes a ragged breath, a far cry from his usual reactions. “Gordon, stop the boat.”

 

_Don’t be afraid, Bruce._

_Why do we fall?_

 

He has a sinking feeling Gordon never heard him, either. He rakes a shaking hand through his hair. He has to get out of here and blindly find the ladder through the fog.

 

He’s been groping in the dark all along, in a figurative sense. He’d thought that maybe, if he was lucky, his nightmares of the fall into the well—his childhood trauma, Rachel’s death, his failures—would find someone else to torment with Gotham’s destruction. They haven’t. They most likely never will, the world’s end be damned.

 

He’ll never be rid of them. They remain his and his alone, becoming even more grotesque than they were before and hanging like a dead weight around him. Impeding each physical and mental breath. Manifesting into _this_.

 

It’s oppressive. Sinking into his skin. Pinning him to the bench. Swallowing the sounds around him, replacing real sounds with whispers upending his sanity.

 

_You have to find me._

_Bruce._

_It’s there._

_We’re here._

 

“Of course we’re here. I programmed it into the GPS.” He speaks loudly, but doubts anyone in the cockpit can hear him.

 

But why can _he_ hear _them?_

 

_Tell Bruce._

 

“Joker?”

 

_Bruce._

 

“Stop,” he breathes out, adding an embarrassing yet unmistakable whine in his voice. Another drop of temperature chills him through the bone, cutting him to the quick. “I’m losing it.”

 

_No, Bruce. We’re here. You’re here._

_I promise._

_I promise, Bruce._

 

A fierce shiver travels down his spine. Although it seems impossible, he’s colder than when he’d fallen through the ice while training with Ducard. _Ra’s_. Bruce shivers again. He slips his arms under the blanket and tugs it closer with a clammy hand, willing himself to pull it together.

 

But he swears the blanket hadn’t been there when he’d first fallen asleep, indicating that Joker had ignored Bruce’s instructions.

 

The man will never pass up a chance to manipulate him—and Bruce has, by all purposes, set him up to do so. It had been stupid and careless. Extremely. It can’t happen again but consciously exercising more caution will be a waste of energy. The Joker, the master of manipulation, who twists things out of nothing, will screw Bruce over again.

 

He considers, for the second time, how far he has fallen since putting Alfred on that plane. He decides that he hadn’t fallen. He’d _thrown_ himself over a cliff without a parachute. Willingly. A normal reaction for anyone who experiences trauma, but he has never been normal. Not since his parents had died. He certainly isn’t now. No sane person would claim they’d heard voices.

 

He mentally files his misadventure with the Joker with other things he’d rather forget. Although he’s had years of training, he might be fooling himself this time. Handling a gun, and using it with intent to harm, has unleashed years of suppressed feelings—and the inevitable, accompanying phobia. The effects won’t end there. He’s feeling them now. He can’t find, within himself, what he needs to combat his conflicting feelings, destroying them once and for all. He’s not who he once was. This proves it. He doesn’t have the ability to control his feelings like he did before, not when he’s in this strange partnership with the Joker.

 

He huddles, rounding his shoulders and cursing his chattering teeth. If he could just get warm, he could _move_.

 

_Bruce, listen to me._

_Listen._

 

“I am. I’m trying,” he whispers. What else does he have to do? What else does he have left?

 

He closes his eyes, imagining the Joker standing by the bedroom, hidden by the fog and talking to him.

 

Yes, that’s it. The Joker has to be there. The Joker must be toying with him, refusing to speak.

 

But after a moment, the same, discordant symphony of voices from before crescendos. He wants to clasp his hands over his ears to block out their arguments—between Jimmy, Barbie, and Gordon, with the Joker being the voice of reasoning and no one hearing him—but he can no longer feel his hands.

 

This is just great. He’s hearing a voice, his other self, and getting hypothermia.

 

“Bruce?”

 

His heart skips a beat. It’s the sliver of light he needs, a break in the conversation as well as the fog, sounding more real than ever.

 

“Joker.” It has to be him. It has to be. It has—

 

His thoughts race forward as if he’s planning his next steps along the shadowed rooftops. He clings to the Joker’s voice most of all and hangs on during the chase, like he always does. He steps into the proverbial light—

 

_I see it, Bruce._

_Do you?_

_I see you._

 

—only to find that he’s not going forward at all. The unsettling, murky mixture of light and dark, of his past and present, settles down around him.

 

_Do you see me?_

 

With the fog obstructing his view, how can he see anything? Its ghostly appearance is unexpected and confusing, but he has to admit a part of him is thrilled about it, its secretive nature. Here, he’s hidden, and could _stay_ hidden. The blanket of fog resembles the night he’s so familiar with, ushering in a familiarity he’d thought he’d left behind him in Gotham.

 

But that’s impossible. It’s in the afternoon, not the evening. He hasn’t slept that long.

 

_Not impossible, Bruce._

_Hear me._

_Bruce._

 

It is impossible, he fights back, and, slowly, the others’ voices recede from his mind.

 

_No, Bruce. Don’t lock me out. Please, don’t—_

 

His rage swells, overcoming the persistent plea in his head, bleeding new warmth down his arms and into his fingers. He clutches the blanket, tempted to rip it in half in his frustration, but he staggers to his feet, weaving. He will end this now, once and for all.

 

“Dammit, just leave. Me. Alone,” he demands through clenched teeth. “I’m through with you, hear me? I’m not him anymore. Not Batman. I-I can’t be,” his voice shakes out. “Not anymore. What I’ve done. I’m...Bruce, with a past. Nothing else. Just leave me alone.”

 

He doesn’t know what to expect after his outburst, but the silence that falls around him isn’t it.

 

But he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. The heaviness that had settled deep within his chest has lightened. A dead weight has been lifted, it’s cumbersome presence vanishing.

 

He exhales slowly. It’s finally quiet. Finally…freedom.

 

He sits, allowing his body to melt against the bench in a state of true relaxation.

 

The voices must have all been in his head. It isn’t the first time that he’s thought he heard something that wasn’t there. He runs himself thin many nights, forfeiting sleep for the sake of Gotham. He can count on his hand the number of time he’s hallucinated from the lack of sleep, but it isn’t unheard of.

 

Nothing’s wrong. It’s perfectly normal. Perfectly normal for him, at least.

 

He lifts his head, about to get to his feet, but the boat rocks violently. He’s thrown off balance. He’s not a virgin sailor—he’s put in miles on the bay and on this ocean—yet his body reacts like he’s one. Dizziness hits like a lightning bolt, disarming him of his fighting instinct.

 

_Don’t forget, Bruce._

 

Fresh anxiety swells in his chest. Not again. His throat shrinks until all he can manage are short, ragged gasps. A panic attack?

 

“No,” he wheezes out. He can’t believe he’s falling apart like this. “Leave me alone,” he croaks. He clenches his hand into a fist and slams it down by his side, onto the bench. Pain ratchets up his arm. “Dammit, leave me _alone_!”

 

_Get up._

_They told me you were coming._

_They told me._

_Told me._

 

He can’t tell if the voices—voice?—are in his head now, or coming from the cockpit. He’s not sure he wants to know. He fears the answer—the real answer—will only prove he’s going mad.

 

And if he’s going mad, it explains absolutely everything that he’s done. All the missteps he’s taken. His suppressed inhibitions. Every single bad choice. In a way, it makes him feel better. None of this is truly him.

 

_Bruce. Listen. You’re not going m—_

 

“I’ll be right there,” he promises, lying through his teeth.

 

He can’t go anywhere until he gets to the bottom of this. If he’s crazy, he needs to know for certain before he talks with Gordon, or the Joker.

 

The boat rocks again. Already taken off guard, he’s helpless to the motion brought by waves battering the boat. His body slams into the wall beside him.

 

Shaking, he gets to his feet.

 

“Steady. Hold the boat steady,” Gordon orders from above.

 

“Gordon?” Bruce tips his head back to look up, new relief washing over him.

 

“Dad, I think there’s another big rock up ahead!”

 

_I see it._

 

An eerie feeling crawls up his spine. Bruce closes his eyes, lost in it, welcoming it. Nothing else seems normal. At least, in this, he’s shackled to the moment.

 

The sense of danger lingers, trailing him like an infected, its heightened scent for blood leading the way, its fingers clawing at his back and seeking purchase.

 

The voices in the cockpit don’t matter. The voice in his head doesn’t matter. _This_ matters.

 

He’s used to danger. Thinking on his feet. Contingencies. Adapting. After what they’d experienced in Gotham, everything else should feel like a picnic. Even this—hearing voices in his head.

 

But as he slows his racing heart, he can barely catch onto what’s being said above, the other, unworldly words sliding in one ear and out the other like unbidden whispers between lovers. Quietly. Unsuspectingly. Hidden.

 

The boy rambles on, Barbie countering with jabs typical of an older sibling, both the children and other adults oblivious to Bruce’s struggle. It’s the most he’s heard Jimmy speak since they came across the family of three. He takes it as a good sign, but his mind drifts from the boy and elsewhere, following a long trail of self-loathing, chaotic and unpredictable thoughts. The fear that he’s becoming not one but two men.

 

_No, Bruce. Not two. You are one._

 

Yes, he’s two. Batman _and_ Wayne. Yes, he’s crazy. There is no other explanation.

 

It feels like he’d been talking with the Joker on this very couch only a minute ago. But that can’t be right. Without looking, he suspects it’s much later than he’d first thought. He’d explicitly told the Joker—

 

The Joker is behind his confusion. Bruce has been forced into stillness for too long, and his mind, now reluctant to cooperate with him, demands that he give himself the rest he needs. The sleep he can’t really afford. His psyche’s been twisted. Damaged, irrevocably.

 

“Dammit,” he mutters. The word slips from his lips with surprising ease, given his usual tendency to keep curses under wraps. He’d learned from an early age that clean speech placated his well-mannered, English butler. It had been a habit quickly mastered to ward off unwanted discipline.

 

But without Alfred here, what does it matter? What does anything matter?

 

_Bruce._

_Focus._

 

He sags to a seat, bringing his hands up to his head and digging his fingers into the sides of his skull as if pain, alone, could bring more clarity to the situation. Far more than two hours has passed since he’d been alone in the small bedroom with the Joker. Secluded—nothing else will do with Gordon on board when they’re together—their eyes sharpening on each other, daring the other to leave when, in fact, they both had known leaving was impossible—

 

_Bruce, I’m sorry._

 

—Bruce’s hands exploring everything the Joker had hidden under his worn sweats. The Joker touching Bruce where he had not been touched for far too long, every inch of his body having been deprived of the wanting for years. Their lips, kisses surprising gentle, even hesitant. Other times Bruce had been sinking into the pain—sinking into it, knowing the Joker understood exactly what he needed to feel—

 

_You can’t do this right now, Bruce. You have to get up._

 

“There! I see it! Look, Dad!”

 

“My God. It’s the island. It’s...huge. Joker, pull the boat around—”

 

_It doesn’t even affect them._

 

It?

 

_Not yet, it doesn’t. But it’s almost too strong for you._

 

Too strong for me?

 

_Yes. They said it would be. You’re a worthy adversary, but it’s still too strong. That’s why you’re struggling._

_It’s not your fault._

 

Everything is his fault.

 

_Not your fault. It’s just too strong for you._

 

“I told you I saw it! I told you.”

 

“Yes, you did, Son.”

 

The island.

 

The island.

 

_The island. Bruce. The island. Your isl—_

 

A jolt stops him mid-thought. His stomach pitches in time with the boat’s unpredictable tossing and turning. They must be passing through a rough patch, which doesn’t make sense. The rain had already stopped. The weather cleared when they were leaving Gotham.

 

An unmistakable crack of thunder proves him wrong.

 

He stands again and sags against the wall, the one thing holding him upright. He hates the situation in which he’s put himself and the others. The responsibility he carries on his shoulders bleeds into his thoughts, but it’s the fact that he can’t clear his own head that nearly sends him into a panic again.

 

He can’t understand what is happening to him, what changed since he’d first closed his eyes and then this, awakening from a nightmare into another. A living nightmare. Voices clashing in his head. Uncertainty. A sludge of memories.

 

The minor injury he’d sustained to his ribs doesn’t incapacitate him and by all appearances had healed on its own, but his mind—his emotions, his thoughts—have been pulled apart. A heaviness had crept into every proverbial muscle, from the crown of his head to the bottoms of his feet, from the second he’d opened his eyes and saw the fog. His heart pounds in his ears in a haunting rhythm, and he’s left vulnerable to this state of insanity, crazy dialogues running in his head of their own accord.

 

_Not insane, Bruce._

 

Oh, but he’s sure he is.

 

_Listen to me._

 

“No,” he says hoarsely. “No more. Please. Just leave me alone.”

 

_Bruce._

_Look around you._

He doesn’t want to obey the command but he does, out of pure spite to prove it wrong. He takes a moment, twisting his head to the right, then the left, taking it all in and realizing for maybe the first time that he really is alone, at least on the deck.

 

And he thinks...he knows...he’s back to hearing voices.

 

He’s gone. Really gone. Off the deep end.

 

_You’re the sanest, bravest man I ever knew._

_I’m sorry I never told you._

 

“Never told me?” A self-deprecating laugh escapes him. What was there to tell?

 

_Too much. Everything._

 

“Stop,” he hisses. He jumps to his feet, dragging the blanket with him as he spins around, looking for them again where this is nothing—nothing—but his darker self, screaming for attention.

 

_No, Bruce—_

 

He refuses to listen and tamps down another whisper fighting to come to fruition, wanting to beat his head against the yacht in time with the waves battering the boat. “Damn,” he says, grounding himself with the single, errant word. “You’re not here, whoever you are. You’re not. You’re not here. You’re not, you’re not, you’re no—”

 

_Bruce._

 

A weary yet guttural sound of protest escapes his throat. “Get out of my head.”

 

He needs— _wants_ —to escape the silence. The noise. Himself. The fog. It—everything—feels downright, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

 

_It’s not wrong._

_It’s the only thing that is right—_

 

It’s an equation he can’t solve. It’s unequal. Broken. Just like him.

 

“ _Nga debo Min dung,_ ” he whispers earnestly, squelching the sob releasing in his throat. “ _Nga debo Min dung_. Not well. That’s all this is. I’m not we—“

 

_No, Bruce._

 

“ _Men!_ ” he snaps. It _is_ wrong. He can’t protect himself let alone other people if he’s half-mad, his emotions volatile and on the verge of erupting. Worse, he can’t move on from what he’d done with the Joker, doesn’t even try to rid himself of the ever-deepening guilt.

 

Is _this_ the only way his consciousness can handle what he’s done? Is he really this weak? He can’t bring the others down with him. It has to stop. Now.

 

_Bruce._

 

“ _Men_ ,” he grits out. He looks for something in his mind that he can break, if only to try to stop the second narrative in his head. “I’m not listening anymore. Leave me alone.”

 

_Bruce, ple—_

 

Bruce finds it. A burgeoning thread that glows like a brilliant rod. It’s reminiscent of some memory or thought Ducard would have him bring to light, only to tame it or destroy it in order that Bruce would have nothing holding him back from further training.

 

Although he’s found his own way, the truth is, he still depends on Ducard and what he’d taught him in the past. It had served a greater purpose then and must serve him again, now. He pulls on the thread despite the beauty he sees in its presence, but there is no turning back. Every step he takes away from Gotham and towards his future with Gordon and his kids and the Joker demands more and more from him. This break—a figurative one—is nothing compared to living with freedom in his mind one last time, or freedom as much as he can with the Joker attached to his side.

 

He chants in Bhutan and yanks on the thread again, reminding himself this is an exercise in mind over matter, what he must do in this time of war. War with himself and his surroundings. It tenses, springing back, darkening with each little moment. It’s delicate but strong. Or, maybe, he’s the one that is fragile and it has wanted to be broken all-along. He’s off-balance. He has been ever since he helped the Joker, but that’s no excuse for his lapse in judgment.

 

He growls and yanks a third time, and the internal coil, a connection once as golden as the sun, snaps like a weakened twig.

 

A horrendous sensation consumes him, a miserable spark of pain and a keen sense of loss that nearly sends him to his knees. He cries, out, hands clutching his hand until a calmness and clarity fall over him in a comforting shroud.

 

Shaken, he slumps forward, catching himself the last second. He has the oddest feeling he’d lost something more precious to him than Gotham itself, and now would never know, but he’d had no choice. He exhales slowly, eyes closed, meditating. When his mind appears settles, his present clearing, he knows the voice is gone.

 

He’s immediately ashamed.

 

How could his some of his first thoughts after waking up, and despite hearing the voices Gordon and the kids, be the moment he, Bruce, had locked lips with the Joker?

 

He doesn’t daydream. He doesn’t spend his limited daytime hours imagining that he’s kissing anyone, and certainly not Rachel, he tells himself, let alone a psychopath. He has never let intimacy or the lack of it get in the way of his patrols at night or business matters during the day before. He knows exactly what he’s done, doesn’t need to relive it or be reminded that he’s been more than willing to cross yet another line, despite the fact that his boat guests are no more than a stone’s throw away.

 

What had he been thinking? Is there something else feeding into his choices? Does he have a long-suppressed voyeurism kink? He grimaces at how close to the truth that thought really is. He can just imagine it now, the look of shock on Alfred’s face when he learns his charge had become a voyeur with a psychopath at his side. Or, is it that he’s suppressing some other hidden desire? The last thing he needs is a secret like that to come out in the open in front of Gordon and his kids.

 

He doesn’t need to be reminded that he’d enjoyed the release with the Joker. No one in his right mind would’ve kissed the psychopath and taken pleasure from it, proving, once and for all, that he’s tipped the balance of his own mental state. He’s fooled himself before, thinking things couldn’t get any worse, whatever he’d once enjoyed—sexual pleasure and satisfaction—long dead and dormant. His body has made it clear that these things are not.

 

But Batman can’t be forced down this path. He can’t succumb to these whims—and neither can Bruce Wayne.

 

He brings both of his hands to his forehead, dragging his fingers across his face, cursing under his breath and then again when a telltale panic crushes him from all sides. He’d fallen into an abyss, somewhere between point A and point B, quite possibly after he’d resorted to deception to keep Alfred safe. He’d lied to his father, manipulated him, sent him away without his consent.

 

Bruce treads a gray, moral line. That hasn’t changed. He’d brought this—destruction—upon himself.

 

With dawning horror, he fully understands the implications of what he’d done, beginning with saving the Joker. He’d considered them before but hadn’t owned them, not completely, or embraced the sheer pain of it until this very moment.

 

Although Bruce had done nothing he wouldn’t have done for any another Arkham inmate, starting with saving the Joker from certain death in Arkham and ending with bringing him on the boat, he’s been climbing a very dangerous, impossibly slippery slope.

 

Gordon believes they imprinted on themselves, that the Joker has imprinted on them all. Even Bruce isn’t immune. If Gordon is right, and Bruce can’t deny that he is, the commissioner’s far more intuitive than the Dark Knight, himself.

 

The imprint will remain a part of him, even if he gets out of this alive. He’s not sure he wants it to fade. Its permanence isn’t so bad when he looks at the bigger picture—with the Joker by his side, he’ll be keeping the Gordons—and maybe even himself—alive. A permanent mark will remind him that he isn’t fallible. That he’s capable of falling like anyone else. That maybe, just maybe, he deserves it after all he’s done in the name of survival. He deserves it after his poor choices. It’s his comeuppance.

 

He’d never verbally agreed with Alfred when the older man, without overbearing judgement, would haltingly describe his actions as being masochistic. Yet it has never been far from the truth. Had Alfred been standing before him now, Bruce would have admitted that he was—to a fault. The realization, pain included, is a relief. Has he been looking for this kind of mental pain all along? The affirmation of who he is, in the deepest, darkest parts of his soul?

 

Alfred would often tell Bruce, when he was at his lowest, that not all was lost. That hope lived, albeit small. Bruce, whose character flaw is thinking the glass is always half empty, has never believed him.

 

He wants to dissect these thought, break them down—rip them into shreds—but he doesn’t have the energy or time to continue to psychoanalyze himself. Yet he can’t think of any other reason to lie there for another moment, his eyes screwed shut and his ears tuned to the voices in the cockpit, and maybe the ones he keeps hearing in his head, than to take advantage of the space between his boat guests and the downward, spiraling nature of his thoughts.

 

The distance between him and his guests is shrinking. He’ll have to acclimate himself to this new mask he’s wearing now that he’s discarded the cowl more quickly than ever. He has to decide who he is. Killer—or lover? Fighter of the defenseless—or savior of a psychopath?

 

But does it matter if he labels himself? He’s twisted two parts into one before—his alter ego with the mask of Wayne, billionaire playboy, becoming more like ‘himself’ than he’d ever thought possible. He’s always known, deep down, that he wanted revenge. To shoot Joe Chill. Kill the man—the criminal men—responsible for his parents’ death. If anything, this, a disaster waiting to happen, makes it official, unearthing what he’d used the cowl and cape to suppress—unbidden violent, internal urgings.

 

He’ll experience the repercussions of what he and the Joker had done in the shower soon enough. He’ll talk with Gordon. Or look at himself in the mirror. Or come face-to-face with the man he’d surrendered to in a lapse of judgment fueled by desire. He’ll see a man who’s haunted by himself, listening and trying to destroy voices.

 

The strange thing is, he isn’t sure he cares about the consequences. Where he should feel deep regret, half-hearted remorse stirs, instead, rising from the embers Bruce himself had lit. He can’t change what happened. If he could go back in time, he would, but that this is the real world—and degrading still—is stunningly clear to him.

 

Maybe it will be best if he moves on, embracing what little normal life there is at his fingertips and leaving the guilt behind along with the rest of his past. Moving forward with whatever pieces of his life are left.

 

It’s unfamiliar territory and a far cry from what he’s always done. Ever since Dent’s death, his life had rabittrailed from the one he’d imagined he’d have after retirement had Harvey survived, remaining stagnant as he’d continued to prowl Gotham’s streets at night. At one time, he’d wanted to give up his alter ego, rid himself of the pain and death that haunted him relentlessly. At one time, he’d envisioned Rachel, always by his side. But even without his hopeful world, the lack of normalcy never stopped him from doing what he thought was right—putting criminals behind bars and freeing the citizens of Gotham from oppression.

 

He’d accepted the consequences of his vigilante lifestyle early on, including the high chance that he’d die before he reached his fortieth birthday, like his father had. He had willingly fed his cravings. All of them.

 

Not a night had gone by without the sound of fists slamming into bone. The slice of a knife through flesh, flecks of red curving around the wound, like the Joker’s lips wrap around a decrepit smile. Wailing sirens warning of approaching danger, prodding him to move through the shadows as if his life depended on it. His cape whipping in the wind, snapping like the firecrackers the boys in the Narrows threw on the ground to surprise the old men.

 

There are no sirens after him now. No cape, except for the one that contains the virus. No Narrows. No old men, raising their voices at boys the age of ten. Only voices.

 

There is nothing left the virus has not touched.

 

His life, his purpose, is gone. He can’t take Joker back to prison. He can’t prowl the streets, not unless he’s ready to spring away from the infected in an instant. And although the urge to don the suit and slink through Gotham’s underworld remains, nothing is as important as the small cry of hope from Gordon’s pride and joy—Jimmy.

 

Bruce can’t remember hearing anything as innocent and optimistic as the boy’s elated observation before. He latches onto it, the purity behind it, refusing to relinquish the ideal that the Gordons’ future is near and better than their recent past.

 

The silence of the manor, and even the penthouse, had been deafening in its solitude, but he’d prefer that over what he’s experiencing now. He’d known nothing else but the sullenness of his own home, the sound of his own heartbeat, despite Alfred’s presence. There’d been no family sleeping in a room in the opposite wing, for that matter. Alfred always refused a room in that side of the manor. And Bruce, a shadow of the night, is a man who should have no vulnerabilities yet has plenty of these crippling weaknesses. Looking back, he’s reminded of his eight-year-old self who had been scared of the dark and whom Alfred would tuck in at night, leaving a nightlight on beside his bed before he left the room.

 

Bhutan might have rid Bruce of his fears but, after coming back to Gotham, his thirty-five-year old self had needed a comforting presence, from just knowing that someone slept in the same wing. In light of the fact that Alfred had never given up on him—a wanted man and accused murderer—Bruce had kept his opinions—his disappointment—to himself. He had been, at the very least, a man who hunted criminals while dressed up like a bat. He couldn’t blame Alfred for maintain that respect and giving him space, or thinking that he’d needed both in the first place.

 

For the first time, he considers the cold, hard facts. If he had ever had the opportunity to sit in one of the bolted chairs in Arkham, or in a place like Arkham, the same one the Joker used when he’d been in therapy, giving himself over to a session with a psychiatrist—his life as he’d known it would have been over in a blink of an eye. Money and his sacrifices of no consequence.

 

No one who is admitted in Arkham ever escapes the standard, demoralizing process leading to a diagnosis. What would they have been decided about him? Would he had been diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder? Depression? Schizophrenia? Anti-Social behavior? Would they accused him of obsessing over his parents’ death? Determined his anger issues morphed into unresolved urges of violence? Decided to intervene, stripping him of his dignity and trapping him behind bars like some common criminal?

 

He has enough ghosts as it is. The stigma of mental illness would have haunted him for the rest of his life, souring the Wayne name and bringing down his family’s company, disappointing Alfred...

 

He shakes his head at himself. That something so careless and free as a child is even allowed to be near him after all he’s done and is doing and will do confounds him. And if he’s hearing voices in his head—or worse—the only place he’s good for is Arkham.

 

“Look, Dad!”

 

“Are those... _cliffs_?”

 

Cliffs? Bruce can’t say for certain if there are cliffs on the island or not—which doesn’t seem right. He never forgets details like that. But he has and—this nightmare is no nightmare. It’s a sorry excuse for a reality.

 

Sitting here does nothing to calm his racing heart, or settle his erratic thoughts, or improve their circumstances. He’s wasting time, caught in an endless circle of being, an eternity of useless thought, unless he can latch onto an idea and pull himself out of it.

 

The boat. He’ll focus on the boat.

 

It’s familiar, at least. Its technology and bells and whistles reflect the life of his alternate persona more than he’d let on. And, maybe he has to believe that who he is from this point on will dictate his leadership.

 

He can’t be be the man who succumbs to panic. Guilt. Regret. Temptation of sex. He can’t have a personality disorder. He can’t be second-guessing himself. He has to be what they need him to be, despite everything.

 

He’s done that before. He can do it again.

 

He has to.

 

Finding new resolve to ground himself, he reassesses his surroundings. He recognizes nothing in the distorting, curtain of fog, but it’s enough to start a headache. He winces and, pressing the heels of his hands into the aching sockets of his eyes, tries to recall where he is. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but his brain simply won’t relinquish the correct answer.

 

This blasted haze. The damned fog. The irritating, belligerent voice that won’t leave him alone.

 

With each passing second, he feels less like himself and more like a man who is unhinged. Lost. Crazed.

 

Maybe he needed to be in that padded jail cell with the Joker, after a—

 

“Well, well, well. I have to hand it to you, Commish. You got us here after all.”

 

_After all._

 

The coincidence is unsettling, and the clarity of the Joker’s words urge Bruce to open his eyes. Dread rolls in his stomach even before he looks around. He blinks in complete shock.

 

The fog is vanishing from sight. The shadows of the setting sun play tricks on the open water, creating shapes that disappear as quickly as the come. The Sea Spirit has stopped its violent ricochet back and forth. It tips right and left in the water and back again, gently, as if to smooth a baby in its cradle. The fog, barely crowding him now, flows from the boat into the ocean without another whisper or good-bye.

 

But the most shocking thing is—he’s on his back, sleep heavy on his mind, the blanket pulled up to his chin, tucked around his shoulders rather than thrown recklessly onto the ground.

 

It’s as if he’s been sleeping all along. Like everything that had just happened with the fog, the voice, everything, had been a dream. A nightmare.

 

“What the…” He rubs his shaking hands across his face. This can’t be right, can it? He’s been...sleeping?

 

His heart lodging painfully in his throat, he braves a second look at his surroundings.

 

Golden shadows dance on the floor of the ship. Emerging streaks of color in the sky mock the darkness they left in Gotham and the fog they’d conquered. Dusk is gradually approaching.

 

He won’t be able to scout the island long, which means he shouldn’t be lying here, alone and wasting time.

 

He shouldn’t be so damned confused.

 

He tries to swallow the emotion clogging his throat, but its lodged there, impossibly. “Wait,” he says.

 

He scrambles to his feet, a bunch of thick rope falling from above in wild disarray, narrowly missing him.

 

He jumps back but, on second thought, steps forward and nudges the maze of rope with his foot. It moves. It moves—proving that it’s actually there. Something concrete. He stares at it, unable to take his eyes off the first thing that proves he _isn’t_ crazy.

 

Joker clears his throat. Bruce startles, looking up at him with a scowl.

 

“Uh, Brucie Boy, you might wanna watch out instead of playing footsie with an inanimate object,” the Joker says.

 

Bruce’s scowl deepens. “It’s a little late for a heads-up. You have awful aim and even worse timing.” His voice shakes, drawing a quizzical look from the Joker.

 

Bruce ignores it, barely refraining from asking him where he had been a minute ago, when he’d needed him. But, then again, if it had been another nightmare, he _wouldn’t_ have needed him.

 

He can’t say a single thing about it.

 

“You okay, Pretty Boy?” Joker asks, a humorous gleam in his eye.

 

Bruce looks away. “Never better,” he mutters. “Next time, warn a person before you throw something at them.”

 

Somehow, he doesn’t let the shake in his knees translate into his speech this time. He picks up the rope, winding it around his hands.

 

Joker snorts. “If I was trying to hit you, you’d know it.”

 

He opens the top of one of the nearby benches and deposits the rope for use at a later time. “Why didn’t you answer me?” he asks, glancing back at him. He’s half-afraid the Joker won’t give him the right answer.

 

Joker leans over the railing until half his body is in the air and grins down at him. “Talking to ourselves, are we?”

 

Bruce’s heart stops. So it hadn’t been a dream? “You heard me?”

 

Joker shrugs. “Maybe. Who knew you liked to talk in your sleep so much?”

 

Bruce swears under his breath.

 

The Joker’s subsequent laughter halts the undercurrent of other voices in the cockpit. Bruce glares at him.

 

“Actually, no,” Joker says. “We were navigating through that strange fog.”

 

Bruce’s stomach rolls. He saw it, too?

 

Joker’s grin widens, a smooth, maniacal smile that somehow softens the irritation rising in Bruce’s chest. “But I’m trying to convince Commish, here, that it’s way more fun _in_ it.”

 

“Speaking of that fog,” Bruce dares to say. “Joker—”

 

“Come up when you can,” the Joker continues in a high-pitched voice as if he hadn’t heard him. “I made you lunch, dear.”

 

The Joker waggles his fingers. Bruce says nothing as the man disappears back into the cockpit, but the endearment had not gone unnoticed. With a resigned sigh, Bruce presses his fingers against his ribs, assessing the damage.

 

Soon, his hand stills.

 

His side doesn’t hurt at all.

 

He breathes out a controlled laugh of amazement. No pain? No injury? It doesn’t make sense. He had hardly been able to sit down on that bench a couple hours ago.

 

With a shake of his head, he drops the blanket on the bench, deciding to forget it for now. He has to face them without giving anyone reason to question him. He walks over to the ladder and can’t help but think that he’ll find blood smeared on the deck and broken bodies once he’s reached the cockpit. He fears that he’ll always imagine the worst case scenario after putting himself and the others at the Joker’s mercy while he sleeps.

 

Gritting his teeth, he climbs. Once he reaches the top, and eases himself onto the deck, he realizes it’s raining softly once more. Raindrops slide down his face and into his eyes before he steps out of the elements and under the canopy protection. He sees three people standing at the far end of the cockpit, their backs turned from him as they gaze out across the bay. Gordon is in the middle, sandwiched between the Joker on his left and the two children on his right.

 

They’re breathing and alive. Simple, precious things, but Bruce can’t stop his heart from racing. He wonders if it will ever stop. He can’t let his guard down for a second.

 

He wipes the rain from his face and walks to the railing in his bare feet. They turn slightly to watch him as he approaches, but he only has eyes for the island that supposedly looms ahead.

 

“Mr. Wayne,” Jimmy says. “Guess what?”

 

“Call me Bruce, Jimmy,” he says, wanting the comfort of familiarity. And, if he’s honest with himself, the comfort of family.

 

Jimmy hesitates, giving his dad a questioning look.

 

Gordon nods. “Go on, son.”

 

Jimmy turns his attention back to Bruce in a blink. ”Bruce, I saw it first!” The excitement rises in his voice. “It’s really big!”

 

Bruce agrees. He estimates they have at least a mile left to go before they reach the island—and even from here it’s much larger than he remembered it being. It never took more than a few hours to walk the perimeter of the island. From the looks of it now, it would take him at least a day.

 

“Well, we’re here,” Gordon says, glancing sideways at him. “That was some fog. Did you see it?”

 

Bruce says nothing for a moment. There isn’t much he can say without sending red flags that he’s unfit to lead them. “I did. For the sake of the ship, I’m glad it’s gone.”

 

Gordon nods. “Almost ran into trouble by the rocks, but we managed.”

 

Bruce takes a breath and steps between Gordon and the Joker. “I told you to stop the boat.”

 

Gordon frowns. “We never heard you.”

 

“I—” The island moves like it’s alive. Bruce’s jaw drops open as the edges fan out and back in again in a form recognizable to Batman. _Especially_ to Batman.

 

“Something wrong, son?”

 

It looks like...a bat?

 

“What the he—” Bruce clamps his mouth shut and curls his hands over the side of the boat in a tight, white-knuckled hold. Anything to keep himself grounded. “Did you see…?” Of course they didn’t. His allows his voice to trail off. He’ll keep his hallucination to himself.

 

Gordon looks at him strangely. “See what?”

 

Bruce steps back and forces his shoulders to relax, offering him a small but measured smile. “Never mind. It’s nothing.” It’s pointless to ask them if they’d seen the same thing he did. If they hadn’t heard voices, there’s no way they are watching the same island—their destination and future home—morph into the shape of a bat and turn back to its regular shape in a blink of an eye.

 

Bruce’s skins crawls. He resists the urge to scratch his forearms and clenches his hands into tight fists at his sides, instead, grinding his teeth until pain creeps into his jaw. His nails dig mercilessly into the palms of his hands as he debates whether or not the transformation had actually taken place.

 

What the bloody hell is happening to him?

 

Gordon squeezes his shoulder. “Bruce? Son? Are you all right”

 

“It’s not,” he says, the admittance hoarse and hollow in his ears. “It’s not...the same. It’s different.”

 

Never in his visits here had the island morphed into what was once his greatest fear.

 

Gordon, to his credit, just smiles gently at him. “How so?”

 

As Bruce chews on his reply, he looks discreetly at the others from the corner of his eye. In particularly, Gordon’s daughter. Barbie stares ahead at the island, her mouth drawn back, lips thinned into a grim smile. She watches the island, carefully, like the detective her father is. And as if she believes Bruce.

 

God help her. _He_ doesn’t believe even believe _him_.

 

“Not the same?” she asks after a moment, still not looking at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“The island...it’s...it’s wrong,” Bruce says.

 

The cliffs he can’t remember being a part of the island rise up from the back, towering over miles of thick vegetation. There’s no way anyone could miss them.

 

What the _hell_ is going on?

 

Gordon frowns and stares down at the GPS. “According to this, it’s right.”

 

“That-uh, isn’t working,” Joker points out.

 

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been here,” Bruce says. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

 

Joker pins him with a look that says he doesn’t believe him.

 

Bruce lifts his chin, fully aware that every eye is now on him and him alone. “Gordon, you can stay in the boat with the kids once we reach the island. Joker, you’ll have to come with me. Unfortunately, we won’t have time to check the entire island before heading back to the yacht for the night. We’ll have to work fast.”

 

He’s relieved they made it to the island before the sun went down completely. But it means that he’d slept for more than two hours, giving him less patrol time.

 

The Joker shrugs. “I tried to get you up, but you sleep like a dead horse.” He hands him a sandwich seemingly out of nowhere.

 

Bruce doesn’t take it. He doesn’t want to eat it. He can’t. He has other things to deal with that are more important. His stomach rolls, not with hunger but with thoughts of his mental capabilities degrading until he loses whatever little sanity he has left.

 

“We all ate,” Gordon assures him, as if that is enough for Bruce to accept the small token.

 

Bruce can’t help but frown, narrowing his gaze on the hint of pink peeking out from the bread. “Is that...ham?”

 

His mouth salivates.

 

Gordon chuckles. “There’s a lot more in that kitchen than any of us expected. The ham was in that tiny fridge of yours.”

 

He snaps to attention. “We need to ration—“

 

“And we will,” Gordon interrupts him, his voice like steel. “But I’m pretty sure you’ve had next to no protein for a few days.”

 

Bruce pauses, then affirms his observation with a curt nod. He can tell Gordon will be just as stubborn as Alfred had been when Bruce didn’t take care of himself.

 

Gordon‘s brow twitches. “It’s a celebratory meal.”

 

Someone nudges Bruce’s arm. He looks down. The back of the Joker’s hand is at his elbow.

 

He thinks of how the Joker pulled at him to get him off the dock. If it hadn’t been for him, for the Joker, he’d be dead. _Dead_. He owes his life to a psychopath. _This_ psychopath.

 

His mind is close to shutting down again at that one thought.

 

The Joker holds the water bottle Bruce never finished. He still doesn’t reach for it.

 

The Joker tsks. “This might come as a shock to you, Bats, but for being such a smart guy, you can be an idiot.”

 

“So I’m having a bad day,” Bruce mutters darkly.

 

“ _Some_ one’s being extra-moody today,” Joker replies.

 

Barbie snorts into her hand, earning a warning look from her father.

 

Joker sighs. “Take it,” he says. “Both the water and the sandwich, before _I_ do.”

 

He stares at it. The sandwich. Then the Joker. This can’t be normal. The Joker insulting him kindly and telling him what to do and wanting him to stay alive, and Bruce wanting to stay alive so he can save the Joker.

 

He wonders if he’ll want to part ways with the Joker in the future, but cannot see himself doing that. Not while he has the ability and wherewithal to at least try to keep him from killing the non-infected people that are left.

 

Normal will never be normal again.

 

“You’re thinking too much, Brucie boy.” Joker growls. “I can hear you.”

 

Gordon has been watching them, and Bruce’s hand is shaking, from Gordon’s close observation or the drop in blood sugar, but it’s a moot point by now. He grips the bottle just beyond Joker’s hand. Joker’s skin is warm, and even though they don’t touch except for that, Bruce likes it, and he thinks Joker likes to touch him but doesn’t now because he’s afraid of what Bruce will do if he does. Because he’s afraid of what Gordon will say.

 

He is hardly ever wrong.

 

He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but he takes the sandwich from Joker, too, and eats and drinks alone. He sits on the floor of the deck, hunched over, lost in his thoughts, wanting to forget the fog and everything it had said to him. He chews as if it’s his last meal, making every bite count. It is the best sandwich he remembers ever having. He silently asks Alfred for forgiveness for thinking so.

 

Before he’s done eating, he remembers, clearly and maybe even for the first time since her death, Rachel’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading my very self-indulgent, “Bruce is having a mental breakdown on a creepy island” fic! In for a penny, in for a pound, is what I told myself before posting this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it. I debated writing why I’m characterizing Bruce this way, but decided against it because it probably would’ve become a ten-page monster. Instead, I’m hoping this chapter clears things up as to why he’s acting “off.” More to be revealed as the story progresses, of course. Reviews feed my muse! :)
> 
> Nga debo Min dung—Tibetan for “I am not well.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy the next chapter. 
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains dubious consent. Please LMK if you think there is another tag I should add.

 

Bruce and the Joker make it to the shore in silence, leaving Gordon and the children in the yacht. For their safety, Bruce had insisted they remain locked in the bedroom until his return, lights darkened. Anything can happen while he’s gone. Until he’s scouted properly, ensuring they’re the only ones on the island, he can’t take any chances.

 

Leaving two children alone, with only one adult? It isn’t ideal. Then again, he thinks, glancing sideways at the man sitting next to him on the lifeboat, nothing about survival is ever convenient.

 

“Home sweet home,” the Joker says, stretching out his arms.

 

Bruce watches him, intrigued by the smile tugging at the corners of the Joker’s mouth. “You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”

 

The Joker flashes him a grin. “Aren’t you? What could be better? Open spaces, the whole island to ourselves, with my darlin’ Bat.”

 

“I’m no one’s ‘darling,” Bruce mutters.

 

“You’re not? From the way you keep watching me, I can’t tell otherwise.”

 

He can’t deny that he is and gives him a careful look. “Don’t make calling me that a habit,” he says, before letting the bottom of the lifeboat scrape the sand. He jumps out. “Wait until I pull it onto the shore.”

 

Bruce drags the boat out of the water, and while he’s grateful for the silence while he works, the Joker’s stare unnerves him.

 

But far much worse than that, he feels like he’s aged decades. A hundred years wouldn’t be an exaggeration. He doesn’t feel the same adrenaline rush he’s lived on for the past five days. Far from it. His arms are shaking like he’s pulled an elephant onto the shore, not a nearly weightless lifeboat, and the world has spun around him at least twice. Sure signs he’s undernourished and depleting his reserves before their time on island has even begun.

 

“Let’s go,” he says, the words scraping his throat.

 

The Joker follows him obediently but lags behind. Bruce conceals the boat behind a series of small shrubs, then freezes. His sixth sense is kicking in, an instinct he relies on to survive.

 

Something isn’t right. The island’s too still and tense, as if it’s holding its breath or waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s not a sign of life beyond an insignificant brush of wind across the sand. His beating heart. The Joker’s quiet breathing.

 

His skin prickles. He tells himself there is nothing here, shakes off the feeling that he’s being watched, but it still sticks. It fucking sticks to him like a second skin.

 

“Dammit,” he whispers.

 

“Coming?” Joker calls out.

 

“Yeah,” he says roughly.

 

He has memorized the beach by now and joins the Joker on higher ground. Somehow, the Joker had managed to move past him without him knowing.

 

“We’ll be able to find some food here tomorrow morning,” Bruce says. “Small fish. Clams. Bugs, too, if you’re so inclined.”

 

The Joker makes a face. “I’ll stick with the leftover ham for now, thanks.”

 

“Suit yourself. Insects aren’t bad once you get used to them.” Bruce adjusts his goggles and goes further than his companion, who had stopped, a wince flashing across his face.

 

“You’re speaking from experience?” the Joker asks.

 

“In the mountains.”

 

“‘In the mountains,’ he says. Is that your answer for everything?” Joker asks dryly.

 

“Maybe.” Bruce gives him time to check his leg. He scans the line of trees ahead of them and beyond, into the shadows, pretending he isn’t waiting for that voice in his head to make its presence known again.

 

But if it does, he thinks it would be fitting. They’ve reached a wild land and Bruce, whose mind is nothing if not unhinged, feels a peculiar swell in his chest, a completeness, that is no less compelling than his new connection with the Joker.

 

Sweat and resignation cling to him, already.

 

“We headed out anytime soon?” the Joker asks. He smiles. “I like this place. Think of all we can do.”

 

Bruce takes a steadying breath. The Joker is right. This is their new home. He has to make the best of it. “You’ll wait here. Keep your knife close.”

 

“Uh, I don’t think so, Bats,” the Joker says with a warning tone. “Don’t even think about leaving me behind because you’re worried I’ll hurt my little old leg again.”

 

Bruce’s gaze drifts downward, where the Joker’s injury is hidden by a pair of $500 designer jeans. “You won’t be able to keep up. You’ll only slow me down.”

 

The Joker’s eyes flickered with amusement. “Is that so?”

 

Bruce takes a second look at a slight incline ahead of them leading to a narrow shelf of elevated rock. It will do, for now. “I’ll help you get up to the top, although you do have an advantage with those long legs.”

 

The Joker flutters his lashes. “You noticed.”

 

Of course he’d noticed. The Joker is taller than he is when he doesn’t slouch. And yet those jeans, although loose, fit well enough to look more natural on him than they do on Bruce.

 

They look...good.

 

“Batsy?”

 

Bruce drags his gaze away from those impossibly long legs and flushes, telling himself it’s from exhaustion and lack of calories. “If any infected finds you, look on the bright side.” He eyes the waves crashing into the rocky shore. “You can always jump to save yourself. They can’t swim. If you’re lucky, you won’t bash your head on the rocks.”

 

“And if someone not infected finds me?”

 

Bruce shrugs. “You keep swimming. You’re resilient. Your leg should hold up so you don’t drown before I get back.”

 

The Joker snorts. “You ever think of taking, oh, I don’t know, watching a YouTube channel on bedside manners?”

 

“YouTube?” Bruce asks.

 

“Videos.” When there’s a break of silence, the Joker looks at him curiously. “Videos, Bats.”

 

Bruce stares back, silent.

 

“They’re all the rage on the Inter…” the Joker’s voice fades into nothing. He clears his throat. “Wow, Batsy. I knew you were a little backward with the times, stuffed in that mansion of yours, but don’t tell me you don’t know what…?”

 

‘All the rage’ indicates it’s a trend. Most likely for pleasure. Bruce tries to recall when he’d actually watched something for fun. There’d been one or two times, as a boy. But his parents had frowned on watching television. Alfred had followed suit. And if Bruce were honest, he’d hated sitting still for so long, unproductive.

 

“You don’t, do you?” The Joker squints at him. “Except for surveillance, maybe? Why am I not surprised?”

 

“Surveillance took up a lot of my time.” Bruce’s scowl deepens. Especially surveillance of him.

 

“Why am I not surprised?” the Joker mutters. “Sexually repressed vigilantes don’t browse for porn like the rest of us do. They just beat people to a pulp, instead.”

 

Bruce ignores that. Most of it. “I’m not repress—”

 

“—nonono, Brucie Boy, don’t tell me you’ll deny that-uh,” the Joker hurries to say, annoyance flashing across his face.

 

“I’m not,” Bruce says, frowning.

 

“Hmm. Answer me this, then. Do you ever, uh,” the Joker says, waving downward, “take care of things yourself?”

 

Bruce curls a lip down in distaste. Not if he doesn’t have to. And he certainly won’t discuss it if he does. Which he doesn’t.

 

The Joker rolls his eyes. “See?”

 

He doesn’t correct him. “I can’t afford distractions.”

 

“And that is what you think…” The Joker pauses and, when he scratches the bridge of his nose, fine lines of disbelief appearing along his brow, Bruce can’t think of anything else that makes the psychopath more human than that. “Huh. That actually explains a lot.”

 

“There’s nothing to explain.”

 

The Joker bounces on the balls of his feet. “Not to me, anyway. I know all about you.”

 

Bruce shoots him a look of untamed disgust. “Hardly. You don’t know where I was born, what I eat for breakfast, and the thread count of my sheets. Among many other things.”

 

“Maybe not, but I doubt you were born in a hospital. Wayne Manor seems like the obvious choice. The rich needs to stand above the rest, am I right?”

 

“Lucky guess.” He isn’t sure that was the reason his mother had given birth to him in the Regency Room. According to Alfred, it had been a dark and stormy night. Then again, Alfred has been known to exaggerate anything having to do with his parents and childhood over the years. More for his own sake than Bruce’s, he thinks.

 

The Joker launches a smug brow. “Not a guess, Watson.”

 

“So I’m the sidekick now?” Bruce deadpans.

 

The Joker smirks more. “If the shoe fits.” He narrows his eyes. “But don’t change the subject. I know these things. Maybe this will impress you. You’re a closeted sugarholic, Batsy. And given that you enjoy an adrenaline rush every night, I think you _need_ to experience a similar rush on your nights off to even like yourself on those days.”

 

Bruce doesn’t know how to reply to such stark truth about himself. He has a feeling that it will only go downhill from here.

 

Yet, despite his better judgement, he lets the Joker talk. “So? Who doesn’t like a sugar rush once in awhile?”

 

Especially if their breakfasts consist solely of liquid green, organic concoctions.

 

“Once in awhile? You mean like daily, but you don’t have to feel bad about that, Batsy,” the Joker crows. “You forgot I saw the cereal in the cupboards that every six-year-old wants their parents to buy in bulk, that you _did_ buy in bulk. Which means you eat whatever sugar you can get your hands on when Jeeves isn’t looking,” he continues, counting each point with his fingers. “Or good ol’ Alfred most likely bought those boxes for a special occasion. And, I have no doubt you impressed your model of the week in bed with the luxuries of the master bedroom first, like the, uh, Egyptian cotton, or the fine wine, since she wasn’t going to actually sleep with you.”

 

“Sometimes Model of the Week _did_ ,” Bruce feels like pointing out.

 

There’d been a few for whom he’d lowered his guard. Reba, for one. She had been as timid as a kitten underneath the facade of the cover model she’d presented, but she’d been one of the most authentic women he’d ever met. Katherine, another, her sad smile and lonely past echoing what he’d felt in his heart at the time. And the last woman to sleep in his bed, although it had been years ago, Miranda. He’d cut things off before he got too attached, then made himself scarce at Wayne Enterprises to save them both from embarrassment. Alfred had hinted his thoughts about that last fling—a rebound, from Rachel. Bruce had never disagreed.

 

The three women’s sincere interest in developing a friendship or more with him—had caught him off guard. He’d taken his chances. He’d pleasured them, looked forward to it, even, without allowing…without…never letting them…

 

Oh.

 

He closes his eyes, grimacing. They’d never had sex, not...traditionally.

 

The Joker is right.

 

Damn.

 

The Joker laughs. “But not-uh _al_ ways.”

 

“No,” Bruce answers, watching him carefully. “Not always.”

 

The other man relaxes his shoulders, nodding. “Right. See? So, did you drug them the other times? Or did you take the second option and tell them you’re gay?”

 

Bruce has to let this slide by, although it’s clear that the Joker has an impression of him that isn’t far from the truth. The press had had no idea that Wayne was bisexual. “Are you done?”

 

“I think you drugged them, because you had that precious image to uphold.” The Joker takes a step forward, raking Bruce from head to toe with a single glance. “The careless, sex-driven playboy you most certainly are not-uh. But maybe something else. What other things are you hiding from everyone?”

 

“Drugs,” Bruce says, quickly steering the subject away from more important secrets. “It shielded my identity, the injuries I had. It was a harmless, convenient way to protect them.”

 

The Joker whistles. “Protect them? For the sake of convenience? You do have a way with words.”

 

“They never remembered the wild night they had when they wake up nestled between Egyptian cotton,” Bruce explains. “But they wouldn’t forget they’d been in my bed.” He paused, considering his next word carefully. “It fed the rumors.”

 

“Oh, you _are_ a man after my own heart.” The Joker preens. “You used them.”

 

“I…” He sees it for what it had been, but he’s not ashamed of his actions. “In a way, but I protected them.”

 

The Joker‘s grin twists into one of sheer glee. “It’s cruel—for you, that is—and probably would disappoint ol’ Gordo. Not that you’d ever confess that dirty little secret.”

 

“What I do in my spare time is none of his concern,” Bruce asserts. “Or yours. I did what was best for them.”

 

“You took away their free will,” the Joker says, shaking his head as if he disapproved. A lie, of course. “You chose for them, darling.”

 

It does sound bad—and controlling—but it had been the right thing to do. He’d never exploit their sexuality, like he’s beginning to think Henri had _him_. “That’s where we differ. It isn’t about choosing.”

 

“No? I think watching a how-to on bedside manners—among, uh, other things—might do you some good, Bats.”

 

Bruce looks steadily at him. “I’m not here to coddle you—or anyone else, for that matter.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Does that surprise you?”

 

The Joker picks up a shell, tossing it in the air. “You have a soft spot for kids.”

 

“They’re in for a rough time,” he says.

 

“So, you do care.”

 

“I want them to be ready for life here on the island.”

 

“Tough love, then?”

 

“Love has nothing…” It has everything to do with it. He shakes the thought away before he recalls every single lyric to a song he has no intention of having run through his head like a broken record. “No.”

 

“Yeah, it has nothing to do with anything, you’re right,” the Joker agrees.

 

“I don’t love.”

 

The Joker laughs. “Don’t or can’t?”

 

He thinks for a moment. He denies himself because Batman _shouldn’t_ love. But something had awakened in his heart over the years for Rachel. “Both,” he says, to play it safe.

 

The Joker nods. “It’s a distraction for a seemingly obsessive compulsive vigilante with a handful of sociopathic tendencies. And an undercurrent of antisocial behavior.” He leans forward, whispering, “Like me.”

 

Bruce wonders if this island could swallow him whole, saving him the trouble of trying to survive a psychopath psychoanalyzing _him_. “It’s a distraction. Tendencies have nothing to do with it.”

 

As soon as he’s done, he realizes, alarmingly, that he’d never defended himself against the Joker’s accusations.

 

He has no idea what that says about him, but this island, the fierceness of it, is running through his veins, like Gotham is in his blood.

 

He anchors his feet to the ground, staring hard at the Joker. “I can’t be distracted. Your argument about tendencies is invalid.”

 

“Right,” the Joker agrees. “For instance, I doubt you truly loved her.”

 

A chill sweeps over Bruce. A presence, unseen, presses against him, taking his breath away. “What did you say?”

 

“‘For instance,’” the Joker repeats, “‘I doubt—’’’

 

“I heard you,” he says, the snarl a stranger’s in his ears.

 

The Joker tips his head back and laughs, the sound carrying across the shore. “I lo-ove to see you riled up, darling. You didn’t really think you’d fallen in love with her, did you? Your narcissistic self isn’t capable of it, not like that, in a so-called ‘normal’ life. And even if it was, it wouldn’t be with someone like her.” His eyes light up. “Have you ever thought your mismanaged love life was all your precious Henri’s doing? A failsafe, if you will?”

 

“Shut. _Up_.” The same, strange feeling he’d had on the ship steals over him. The haze, finishing his focus like an hourglass tipped over, his control slipping through his fingers like sand. “You know _nothing_.”

 

“I know three things in addition to the other stuff I know about you,” the Joker points out. “Your birthplace, secret cravings, and innate urge to control everyone around you. Oh, and what to say to get you to eat.”

 

“That’s four,” he says crossly. But he can’t deny that the Joker had convinced him to eat when it had been the last thing he’d wanted to do. “We’re wasting time,” he clips, turning away.

 

The Joker hums. “So you do feel. I’d say you wouldn’t have put that costume on if you hadn’t cared, but that could be your hero complex talking.”

 

Bruce starts walking. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He’d loved Rachel, hadn’t he? In his own way. It makes sense that he had. It had made sense of his life. Without it, his life makes no sense. He can make excuses that he never loved her, to protect himself, and others, but deep down, it has to be true.

 

Doesn’t it?

 

To feel in control, normal, it soon becomes a mantra.

 

_He loved Rachel. He loved Rachel. He loved—_

 

“Something I said?” the Joker asks, with nothing less than glee in his voice.

 

Bruce checks himself. He can’t let the Joker know that he’s getting to him. “I don’t feel a damn thing,” he says. “Be quiet. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

 

The Joker hum. “Thought you were dropping me off, first.”

 

Although he’d told the Joker to stay off his feet, he can’t leave him here unattended, crippled by his injury, either. “You’re coming with me.” He scans the treeline, finding a small opening, the man-made trail he’d been looking for. “You need to know how to navigate this place in the dark. We won’t go too far. I want to stick around this part of the shore.”

 

“Good thing I’m adaptable,” the Joker mutters.

 

The statement throws Bruce. He stops and looks back. “Adaptable?”

 

The Joker shrugs. “I’m getting whiplash. But it’s okay. I’ll roll with it.”

 

Bruce is torn. He doesn’t understand how he can be seething on the inside that the Joker had even eluded to Rachel, yet, at the same time, practice human decency and extend to the psychopath common courtesy as naturally as breathing. “Explain.”

 

The Joker tosses the shell one last time, letting it fall to the sand. His lips curve at the corners, softening, for a moment, the danger Bruce knew lurked under the surface. “You’ll figure it out.”

 

Bruce drags his eyes away from the Joker’s deceptively serene face. “There may still be a small shelter on the island that we can use until I build a better one. It’s along this path. Stay close.”

 

“Why?” the Joker asks, spinning his knife in his hand. “Wild animals? Coyotes? They don’t scare me.”

 

“No?” Bruce checks the sand for prints and sees at least three sets of various island creatures. “What about wolves?”

 

The Joker tucks his knife in the waistband of his jeans, his mouth settling into a grim line. He limps forward, but the uneven sand prevents him from maintaining a steady gait. As Bruce waits for him to catch up, he makes a mental list of what they need to bring from the boat first at daybreak. If he can find a temporary shelter in the other cliffs, near a water source, they can make quicker work of preparing for a long winter.

 

It won’t be long before the first snow hits, but the first cold snap will be even sooner. He’ll have to make snowshoes this week and hunt. Several furs will go a long way. A robe. Blankets. Curtains for makeshift doorways, partitioning rooms within a single shelter.

 

A breeze brushes across his bare skin, scraping some of his tension away, but it feels strange. It sticks with him. Like it wants to chin to his body.

 

There is something about this island…

 

Bruce can’t think of it now. He can’t consider how right it felt taking his first step onto the sand, breathing the freshest air he’d inhaled in almost a week. Drinking in their new surroundings without thinking, like it was home, despite the feeling that something here isn’t quite right.

 

He’d left the suit on the boat, opting to change into a black ensemble that would not weigh him down in case of an emergency. He’d already lost weight. A couple pounds, at least. He’s muscle-weary, if his sluggish movements were any indication. The suit had chafed his skin so badly that the light fabric of the clothing he wore even now burned his skin.

 

He’d kept only the gauntlets and goggles. Seems fitting, his mask had been shattered and his identity twisted into something he can hardly recognize.

 

He’ll have to trust his instinct, however twisted they are. He’ll have to trust the island. Even though the voice had been erratic, and illogical at best, he’d understood it. It had seemed to be truthful. It had known things about him no one else had known. And, dare he admit it, could have led him here.

 

He doesn’t know how he’d recalled the reservation in the first place—it has been out of sight, out of mind for some time now—or when he’d first mentioned it to Gordon. The time on the boat is already a distant memory. A fuzzy remembrance. He almost wishes he’d been struck on the head during their escape from Gotham so he can plead that he has a concussion, to make sense of this.

 

The temperature drops, almost immediately. He might as well have stepped into a freezer room, the door shutting behind him, locking out the heat, the sun. He suppresses a shiver, hyper aware of every thought he has, of every little movement from here, across the sandscape and to the treeline, including those of the Joker. The way the other man bites his cracked lip, eyes down and trained on every single step. His face, naked and void of makeup, the rawness of it making him look younger than his well-crafted, violent actions afforded him. Those green eyes shining and expression brilliant, revealing more about the psychopath than the Joker realizes. The almost-smile when he glances up at Bruce, studying him in kind. The scars, no longer horrifying and unknown and foreign, but a part of the Joker like Bruce’s past in Crime Alley is a part of him.

 

What should be terrible is no longer in Bruce’s eyes. He’s not even sure he sees the scars.

 

“Cold?” the Joker asks.

 

Bruce steadies himself with a deep breath. “Aren’t you?”

 

The Joker blinks, rubs one hand over his other elbow awkwardly. “Now that you mention it, it is a little frosty. Strange, huh?”

 

Bruce swallows. “It is October.”

 

The Joker shrugs, and they walk side-by-side, content with the silence between them.

 

Bruce doesn’t feel alone anymore.

 

While he tries to decide whether or not it’s a good thing with the Joker as his companion, shadows dance along the rocky ledge above them, mimicking the scattering of clouds from its jagged edges.

 

But where there had once been heavy, rain-laden clouds filling the sky hours ago, it is now startling clear.

 

____________________

 

Although Gordon has no expectation that their first night on the yacht—or any thereafter—will resemble a vacation, it feels good to lie down. To forget the events which led them to the island. Try, anyway.

 

If he never saw another infected again, never made it back to Gotham, he thinks he could be content here.

 

The body next to him stirs just as the memory of his wife sneaks into his exhausted brain. He shakes the thought away and glances down.

 

A pair of bright, knowing eyes stare up at him through the darkness. “I can’t sleep, Dad,” Barbie whispers.

 

“Come here.”

 

She moves closer, tucking herself into the crook of Gordon’s shoulder, the bare spot where Barbara, his wife, should have been.

 

He puts his arm around Barbie’s shoulder and kisses the top of her head. “I know,” he murmurs.

 

Neither can he, but at least one of them is out like a light. Jimmy hadn’t moved a muscle since they’d settled into the bed like sardines.

 

At least this gives them a sense of normalcy. This bed is more comfortable than Gordon’s own.

 

“I miss Mom,” Barbie says.

 

He swallows the stubborn lump in his throat, nodding.

 

“She would’ve hated this,” she whispers.

 

“You’re probably right,” he agrees. He doesn’t believe for one moment his wife would have agreed to this arrangement they had with the Joker and the Batman. She’d hated the psychopath, with good reason. There is no way she would have allowed them to continue on with Bruce and the Joker.

 

She’d never said, but Gordon had been almost certain she’d hated the Batman, too.

 

He’s not sure what he would have done in that case, but he knows that without the Batman’s intervention they would have...

 

He stops following that particular trail of logic. Nothing good can come out of it.

 

“I wish I could read a book,” she says.

 

She sounds disappointed, and he is for her sake. “Maybe one day we’ll find you some.”

 

“I do have books. I mean, Bruce does.”

 

“What?”

 

She turns her head to stare at him. “Bruce’s books.” She points with her flashlight to a shelf above them.

 

He remembers now. There are at least three books, but they are hardly fit for a young girl. One on law. Next, The Count of Monte Cristo. The third, The Art of War. There’s also a notebook, with what feels like a slim pencil tucked into one of the pockets.

 

“That’s some heavy reading for a girl who loves Nancy Drew.” Heavier, even, for a bumbling billionaire who had regularly feigned polo injuries.

 

“No,” she protests. “I don’t mean those. The ones underneath them.”

 

“There is no…” he stops and thinks like Barbara. Like Bruce. “A hidden compartment?”

 

Her smile gleams in the darkness. “I found it before Jimmy. I think the other two are gifts.”

 

“Gifts?”

 

She sits up and gets on her knees, smashing her pillow flat. She opens the compartment and pulls out several oddly shaped packages covered with black paper and tied with black ribbon—of course they would be—and a book, unwrapped.

 

Biting her lower lips, she hands them to Gordon. “One is a mystery.”

 

She had always been one to snoop. He tries not to smile. “You opened it.”

 

She lifts her chin. “Just one. It was half-opened, anyway.”

 

“We’re guests of Wayne’s and shouldn’t invade his privacy like this. Put these two back,” he orders.

 

“I doubt they’re on his mind.”

 

“Barbie,” he says. “They’re not yours.”

 

Her face falls, but she obeys.

 

He turns the other over, a hardback that looks like an antique. He opens to the title page, squinting at the words as Babs’ flashlight illuminated them. He’s never heard of this particular English author, or the book itself, published in Europe in the early nineteenth century. It must belong to Alfred. Or, had, by the looks of things.

 

“I guess it can’t hurt to keep this one out. We can ask Bruce about it tomorrow first.” He pauses. “If he’s up to it.”

 

“I guess you’re right. He...he misses Mr. Pennyworth. Do you think he’s alive?”

 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

 

Even if he is, how will Bruce find him? So much is uncertain. Their life on the island. Society. Gotham. Who’s to know anything?

 

“Best not to talk about it much,” he adds.

 

Barbie grows quiet. “Maybe I shouldn’t bring it up then. The book, I mean. I did open it without asking.”

 

What had come over her? “Probably a good idea.”

 

“Okay,” she agrees, yet longing weighs the whispered word.

 

Jimmy sighs in his sleep. They’ve talked too long. Gordon put the gifts away before his son awakens. Barbie shuts off the flashlight and burrows next to him, pulling the cover up to her nose.

 

He breathes a tender blessing into his daughter’s hair. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

 

____________________

 

 

 

 

_October 28th, Day One_

Gordon insisted I write down a record of our days on the island. I told him he should be the one to keep the journal, he will have more time on his hands than I, but he said he prefers to read my straight and narrow handwriting over his—and I quote—“chicken scratches.”

It is dawn. I can write little else. I’m too tired to make note of what we discovered or how the moon watches over the shore like Alfred hovered over me when I was sick as a child. Eyes bright with concern, the light from the corridor slipping through the cracked door and landing on my feet like a faithful cat. A shadow moving across the covers, a hand across my brow—

But that hand is J’s, as he reaches for my covers, too. He’s beside me. I don’t mind. It’s cold in the bedroom on the boat. It never has been before. We need the body heat. I feel like I’ve been bathed in ice.

As you can see, I was also too tired to argue with Gordon about our sleeping arrangements. The bed, if I must agree with J, is too comfortable for men like us. Maybe that is why I prefer the hard floor, if given a choice. It keeps me alert. The bed is lulling my eyes closed. I don’t think I’ll wake up before the next evening sha—

 

 

 

 

_October 29th, Day Two_

I fell asleep before I finished last night. I can’t remember what I was planning to write. I do remember the increasing sensation from today that the island is a part of my subconscious. I find myself thinking about the island all the time. About what we need, but also what the island needs.

I woke up with enough daylight left to venture into the forest with J. We didn’t go far, but as it turned out, we didn’t have to. We found what we’ll need to survive through winter, except for the wild game that I will hunt for each week, of course, but I can’t understand it. I can’t understand...how...or why...this is all here. Even with the hard work that is necessary to prepare for the long, cold months, it seems that it will be easier than I expected.

Between the berries, wandering goat on the rocky cliff, three scrawny pheasants, and a waterfall with clear drinking water, we will be well-nourished, considering, if not hydrated. I made a makeshift cage while J scavenged the land for food for our “pets.” Jimmy and Barbie made and brought us breakfast, fried ham and potatoes, and a side of berries, all of which made me sleepy. J, too.

J is already tucked in for the night. And I mean tucked. He hogged all the covers.

I don’t mind. I can’t rest when I see him limping while we work, and the pain on his face when he thinks I’m not looking. I’ll make a poultice for him tomorrow, to fight off any infection. None of us can afford to be sick. I think I’ll find what I need beyond the waterfall. I’ll go alone, leave J at the small cave I found.

It might be best if I work alone, anyway. The island vies for my attention. I think that’s why it’s giving me what I need, surprising me at every turn, keeping me on my toes. It wants me to listen to it.

I must be exhausted. I’m writing...insanity.

 

 

 

 

_October 30, Day Three_

There is something else by the waterfall. I found various healing roots and leaves as I looked for footprints on the way to inspect the noise. But then I heard a shout. It was Gordon and the kids, who said J had a fever.

I will go back to the waterfall tomorrow, when I start to build our shelter near it. I’ll need to cut down the smaller trees shading the northern side of the falls. This means...delaying the climb to the larger cliffs again.

I used two clean rocks to mash the leaves into a poultice for J’s leg. After applying it, and making him drink fresh drinking water, J fell asleep. I watched over him for a little while then left him for a short time on the yacht to speak with Gordon on the beach. The kids warmed themselves by a fire thirty feet away, talking between themselves.

Gordon made me promise that I wouldn’t overdo it the next few days. He says I’m too focused. That I’ll burn out quickly.

Maybe I “am” too focused. I’m short with all of them, hardly speaking otherwise. I refuse to get more than four hours of sleep. I’ve done with less before.

But I will listen. I just can’t make the promise he wants me to make. He says I can’t push myself forever.

He isn’t wrong, but for now...I can’t stop.

Alfred would understand.

But Alfred isn’t here.

 

 

 

 

_October 31, Day Four_

J here. (Fitting, since it’s All Hallow’s Eve, right Bats?) I’d prank him and scare the kids, but my leg is on fire.

You know what they say! No trick or treat, if you can’t stand the heat!

Infection’s a bitch. It’s not Bruce’s fault, although my darling can’t help but blame himself.

Darling has a nice ring to it, yes? He told me not to call him that. But I’m delirious from the infection and can’t help what comes out of my mouth. Er, pen.

I’ll give Bruce all the covers tonight, just to be nice. Not that I’ll want them. It feels like a sauna in here right now, except for when Bruce is nearby. He’s icy to the touch. Like a popsicle-eating vampire. A cold-hearted SOB he may be, for his Bat is showing again, more and more each day, but he’s not that cold.

If I didn’t know better, the island is draining him of the heart he has left in a game of tug-of-war. It wants the parts I didn’t break. I don’t like that.

There isn’t much of his heart intact. I can see that now. I never knew he had so little before I came into the picture. Wayne may be a billionaire but he’s piss-poor in about everything else.

Now that I am here, he’ll warm up—to me. I guarantee it.

 

 

 

 

_November 1, Day Five_

I’m not sure what to think of Joker’s conspiracy theory. Not that I’m not grateful for his concern.

I knew the infection was worse than he let on. He’s feverish again, talking nonsense in his delirium. I have been applying a wet cloth to his forehead while he sleeps restlessly, giving his ice chips when I can. I need to find more comfrey, witch hazel, marshmallow root and calendula as soon as possible. Barbie has been helping me make the poultice and we’ve gathered enough to start filling a makeshift medicine cabinet. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared. In fact, we must be ready for other medical emergencies. I’ll continue to teach them basic first aid.

Will have the shelter built in three weeks. I would finish it sooner but it’s harder than I thought to chop wood on just five hundred calories a day—or less. I work, then rest, and continue the cycle until the sun goes down. Gordon always helps, but I hate to take him away from his children who need him more than ever.

I need to hunt for food, too, but that will take several hours and patience. I hate to stop building, but I’ll have to. Soon.

Tomorrow, if the kids are up to it, I’ll start teaching them carpentry. We’ll need steps leading up to the house, and a pull-up ladder. J is keeping our pets company, more or less. He won’t stay in bed long enough, and I won’t let him do anything else. I left him alone with Gordon and the kids. I hope I don’t regret doing so again tomorrow, but someone needs to watch out for him while I’m away.

Barbie found the gifts from Alfred, Lucius, and Rachel’s mother. I saw it on her face, but she hasn’t told me herself. I’m not upset. Kids are naturally curious—I probably would have done the same thing, especially in a situation like this. I won’t tell the Gordon and the kids what they’re for, although I think Gordon has an idea.

The gifts will stay wrapped and out of sight. I won’t open them, but I don’t have the heart to throw them out. Still, why would I want to celebrate a day that brings me nothing but pain? My parents are dead, buried in a city to which I doubt I’ll return before next year. Alfred may be gone, too, for all I know. Lucius was infected and wandering just outside his office before I was able to warn him. I have no idea where Mrs. Dawes is, but she was in the thick of where it had started.

I can’t acknowledge I’m another year older when I’m still him. The Bat. An immortal ideal.

Maybe the Joker is right. Or, maybe this is penance for failing to save a city, and the island won’t let me let go of my alter ego.

And I’m not sure I want it to. I don’t think it’s such a bad thing. I feel like me again, even without a mask. I’ve deduced that if I embrace it more and more each day, we’ll survive longer. It’s not a sacrifice when the only people I have left in the world will live.

 

 

 

 

_November 2, 3, and 4, Days Six, Seven, and Eight._

I’ve been too busy, cold, or weary to write—and J too sick.

Gave Barbie her first knife lesson, although our hands nearly froze that evening. We practice several times a day now, sparring and climbing.

She’s eager to learn, and she’s naturally agile, with a quick mind. She asks me what I think of the island just about every day.  I haven’t told her what I really think about it yet, what I sense from it, although I believe she’d listen to me without judgement.

I’ll teach other things so they can survive without me when the time comes. Her father could not watch us. While manning the radio, he sewed us both handwarmers instead, filling them with some of the rice.

Gordon’s grief is written in the new lines on his face. Jimmy is too quiet for a boy his age. He’ll talk, some, but mostly when he’s by himself. I’d be concerned he’s talking to thin air, but he means everything he says. There isn’t anything wrong with having an imaginary friend. I had them when I was a child, although I never spoke of it to Alfred.

Even Gordon lets his son be, believing it’s Jimmy dealing with his grief in his own way. But I listened once. He talks about his mother. His dad and sister. Me. Even the Joker, who he says makes him laugh.

After showing the children what seaweed we can eat, I set up several traps and captured our first deer, and two rabbits. I hated to do it, but I need a different source of protein and iron. Building our “home” takes a lot out of me, more than I care to admit. But it has to be well-made, with thick walls for the coming winter. Living on the yacht won’t do, and I haven’t come across an inhabitable cave yet.

Although I can’t remember where I had heard them before, the ceremonial words of the Miagani ran through my head as I sliced the deer’s neck. The blood stained my fingers, my hands, before I was through separating the meat from the skin. J, who was more lucid when I returned, noticed it immediately and has been giving me looks, as though he expects me to be mad that it won’t wash off right away.

I don’t mind. I look at the bloodstain and see life. Although there’s no sign of other life other than the wild animals, and no sign of rescue, we’re living. We’re actually living here.

 

 

 

_November 5, Day Nine._

J grabbed my hands when I walked into camp mid-morning. He’s feeling better, but he was too serious. The look on his face...

I don’t remember being gone hours later than I told them I’d be. In fact, other than that damn voice that said my name, like a whisper on the wind, I don’t remember what I heard, or what I did, at all.

Thorns were embedded in my sleeves, digging into my flesh. My pants were torn at the knees, indicating I’d been crawling, inflicting bloodstained tattoos on myself. I think I fell asleep while hunting. Or when searching for edible roots to use as my own breakfast. Maybe I’d attempted to scale the cliffs after all. Maybe I’d had a nightmare. I have been known to roam the manor, unaware of my steps and Alfred leading me back to bed before. I don’t know what happened tonight, and I don’t want to think about it too much, or the presence that haunts me. It gives me a bad feeling.

J says his leg is better and wants to go with me next time when I build. I told him he can the day after next, that I liked not having to watch out for him while I work.

He pouted and refused to share the covers with me.

It only made me smile on the inside, where he can’t see. I’ve missed his company, how he tries to get me to respond to things he says. Laugh or frown, it doesn’t matter to him, just that he got me to reply. It makes these moments, when he’s watching me with heavily-lidded eyes, his body warming mine, the almost-small talk we exchange as a habit now, something I look forward to each day.

I won’t feel guilty about that, although I’m mad at myself that I care this much about my own happiness. I have no time for it, no right. The others depend on the skills of the Bat far too much.

I won’t acknowledge this to his face, or that I care for his happiness in this dismal situation we’re in. I...can’t.

I’ll have to hide this journal now.

Thing are becoming too personal when they shouldn’t be.

 

 

 

 

_November 6, Day 10_

We started the day off on the wrong foot. Things were tense for both of us, until the island silenced itself at midnight, not a bird in the air, not even a rustling of the wind through the thick forest. Had it sensed our irritation with one another? Hushed itself so we could hear ourselves think and really listen to each other?

I can’t start thinking like this—like the island is a sentient thing—but I can’t help myself.

J and I are at a stand still. Intimacy has never come easy for me, and I didn’t think J wanted to pursue it when he’s limping around camp and hurting. But I was wrong. It appears that we both long for it. I find myself teasing him, and smiling to myself when he takes verbal jabs at me. J calls it flirting—now that I’ve eaten and rested and have had time to consider what is going on between us, I’m not sure I can disagree.

The island is forcing me to acknowledge things about myself that I wouldn’t otherwise. Case in point...

I was sexually conditioned by Henri. That much is clear. And although it helps make sense of the shallow connections of past relationships, or the lack of any relationship, I’m sick to my stomach. I made the mistake of saying I can’t be a liability. J told me he would help me sort things out—whatever that means—but how can we, so calmly, play with fire, so to speak?

When I think about all the things that could happen out here in the wilderness, after an apocalypse—society collapsing, the children increasingly vulnerable, life held in a precarious balance, the swift weight loss affecting all of us, my own strength waning—I’m not sure I have a choice. How deep is this conditioning? If a stranger overpowers me, stumbles upon my weakness, would they exploit it? Use it for their gain and, somehow, against others? What then? What happens to Gordon and his children? J? It’s unacceptable, but I’m not worried for my sake but theirs, the only people I have left in the world.

I can’t ignore it any longer, but I can’t mention a word of the conditioning to Gordon. He’d want to intervene, help me—I can’t go there. Not with him. Not with him.

J and I will have to...experiment...on our own.

He’s been my companion these past two weeks, but he is, undoubtedly, a psychopath. I would be placing my life in his hands, indefinitely.

God help me. I have no choice.

 

 

 

 

_November 7 and 8, Days 11 and 12_

I went to the cliffs alone, angry at J. He’s right—we shouldn’t wait any longer to see what Henri did to me—especially when I still can’t remember all the places I’ve gone and what I’ve done when I’m apart from him and Gordon and the others at camp—but I felt cornered. I had to escape.

In an effort to blow off some steam, I investigated the cliffs. Finally. However, I nearly fell while scaling the east side of the tallest rock. A strong wind moved the rope beyond my reach, and the ledge on which my foot had anchored broke into pieces, dropping into the valley below. I clung to a root that slipped out from another rock. It saved my life.

I’m not at camp. It has been more than seven hours since I left J. Yes, I stormed out of the boat like a child, taking the notebook with me. And, yes, I’m a coward. I need to return, apologize to J, but the island is leading me further into itself, even when there is nothing beyond these cliffs but endless blue waters. I wonder, after I have time to reach the top, and when I see Gotham from a distance, if it will be bathed in blood.

It’s odd, but everything about the past two weeks has felt like a strange dream. A fucking nightmare.

When will we wake up?

 

 

 

 

_November 9, Day 13_

It’s Jack, not J. Get it right, Bats.

 

 

 

 

_November 10, Day 14_

Obviously, J—I mean, Jack—has no concept of the word ‘privacy.’

 

 

 

_________________

 

 

Bruce waits until they were alone the next day, headed for the worksite in the thick covering of the woods, to actually say it.

 

And even then, he can’t look directly at his face. “I’m sorry.” He takes a breath. “I’m sorry…Jack,” he adds cautiously. “Is that...your real name?”

 

He stares straight ahead, not sure if he should be grateful for the silence following his grossly inadequate apology or nervous that J—no, _Jack_ —appears to be ignoring him.

 

“I don’t know what came over me.” Bruce steals a sideways glance at him. “I know it was…” He grimaces. “Childish.”

 

Jack mutters under his breath, something Bruce can’t make out.

 

Bruce sighs. If he could turn back time, before he’d screwed up...Well, if he could turn back time, he’d go as far back as before the infected. Rachel’s death. His parents’.

 

“So you’re going to ignore me all day?” he asks quietly.

 

“Why not? You do it,” Jack says. “Pretty damn well, I might add.”

 

A shame that he’d never known he could actually feel floods his chest . “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I know I acted hastily—and I shouldn’t have left any of you alone for that long.”

 

What _had_  he been thinking? He’s been leaving the Joker alone with Gordon and the kids without a second thought.

 

Jack’s jaw clenches. “So we can’t survive this without you?”

 

Bruce frown. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

 

“It is what you meant,” Jack says. “I guess I should’ve expected this type of self-righteousness from a man with the largest hero complex on the planet. You don’t make it easy on the people around you.”

 

He wonders if Jack is Alfred, somehow reincarnated. “I understand.”

 

“Do you? Do you really understand?”

 

“I think so,” he says.

 

Jack turns on his heel and faces him. “You have problems, Bats.”

 

He nods. “I know.”

 

“You have these issues, these things you do, that are throwing me off,” Jack growls. “No one's ever done that before.”

 

Bruce’s mouth drops open. “What?”

 

“And the worst part is, you’re so stunted by your parents’ death, so blinded, I can’t blame you for them,” Jack rages, face twisting in displeasure.

 

Bruce’s mouth snaps shut. How can Jack—the Joker—be mad at him? His feelings, hurt like this? Bruce swallows, debating his next step. Apologize even more—or test the waters and see if Jack is feeling as off kilter as he is on this damn island.

 

He opts for the choice with the least resistance. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

 

“We have time now,” Jack says, rounding on him.

 

It takes Bruce an extra three seconds to understand what Jack is really saying. Another lump forms in Bruce’s throat. “No,” he says hoarsely, backing up one step, then two.

 

He debates the fastest escape route.

 

But Joker grabs him by the arm before he can decide. “On the surface, you’re Wayne, playboy, and also the Bat, but there’s more. We have to figure out what he did,” he asserts.

 

Cold—or fear—sinks into the marrow of his bones. “Absolutely not,” he says.

 

Jack’s eyes flash with irritation. “Yes.”

 

“We should get back,” Bruce says, looking away. “It’s nearly daylight, and they’ll be expecting us.”

 

Jack stops him with one arm against the tree. “You’re scared.”

 

Bruce refuses to be baited. “Let me pass.”

 

“You can’t delay this any longer.”

 

Bruce grinds his teeth together. He doesn’t want to do this, not here. Not now. Maybe never. “I could just go around you.”

 

Jack leans toward him, his eyes narrowing in on him. “Or can you? You’re actually afraid. You, Bruce Wayne, are a coward.”

 

The challenge stops him when it shouldn’t. “I’m not afraid of you.”

 

“No?” Jack licks his lips. “And I’m your damsel in distress,” he adds, laying on the sarcasm.

 

“I don’t plan on rescuing you, even if you were,” he retorts.

 

Jack’s brows meet in the middle. “Nor I you, hot shot. “ He waves his hand, scowling. “Go. It’s what you do best. Go, like you always do, and never come back.”

 

“Fine,” Bruce grits out.

 

“Fine,” the Joker spits back.

 

“I’m leaving,” Bruce says, scowling.

 

“By all means, do,” the Joker retorts. “Be that lost little boy Henri lo- _oves_ to manipulate.”

 

Bruce freezes, his mouth going dry. Jack is fighting dirty. He licks his lips, the words echoing hauntingly in his head. “S-say that again?”

 

Jack speaks slowly, as a knowing light fills his eyes, “Be that lost little boy—”

 

Bruce doesn’t let him finish. Emotions and logic and denial warring with each other, the part inside of him that has been stretched thin, warped, and broken, time and time again—snaps. Maybe for the final time.

 

He has nothing to lose. Nothing. He’s at the lowest point he can go.

 

Desperation filling him, he’s unable to do anything but move towards the force that is Jack. He lets his feet guide him, smashes his lips against the psychopath's. He drives Jack backwards into the tree, but as he fulfills his own craving, his craving pushes back with a vengeance.

 

Until it is Bruce, not Jack, who is thrown off balance.

 

Jack catches him by the tail end of his shirt. Bruce tries to steady himself, but his heart thuds in his ears, tripping over itself.

 

Jack laughs, pulling him upright. “Just like that, huh?”

 

Rocking forward on his feet, Bruce wipes his swollen lips with the back of his hand, body wavering again as he realizes this is the most insane thing he’s ever done. And he’s not even disgusted about it. He stuffs thoughts of his old life and hopes down and stares at Jack, wondering if he’s a reflection of him, if his own lips are as bruised, if his eyes are as blown and wild.

 

Jack leans forward, encroaching on his personal space. “Ground,” he whispers, eyes shining with intent. “It’s time to tango. I’m sure you’ll be a good boy for me, hmm?”

 

Isn’t that...taking charge...Bruce’s prerogative?

 

His head—Jack, the island—spins. “What?”

 

“ _Now_.” Jack’s eyes harden. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy, Bruce.”

 

Bruce’s mouth is fucking parched.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Without thinking, Bruce drops to his knees. Pain stabs his left knee, the one Jack had struck with a pipe years ago. He barely winces, however, the mountains and Bhutan rising like a beacon in his mind. Henri’s face, his hand against his cheek. The words. Always the words.

 

“Oh-ho-ho.” Jack grins wickedly and takes his face between his hands. “My darling,” he croons, staring down at with him an adoration Bruce hardly expects but suddenly desires above all else. “I had a feeling your, uh, conditioning, leaned this way. You can’t help yourself, can you?”

 

Bruce exhales harshly, a sound unlike himself. “Make it quick,” he demands, snarling.

 

Jack’s arches a brow. “I’m not sure how quick this will be, since it’s an experiment. I’ll try to comply. But, first, tell me about those seven years. About Bhutan, hmm?”

 

It was cruel to start so soon.

 

“Bhutan,” Jack says. His lips cover Bruce’s, his tongue dancing along his teeth, demanding access.

 

It coaxes a moan from Bruce’s lips. Hearing the wanton sound, he shakes some sense into himself and turns his head.

 

“Ah-ah-ah,” Jack sings, firmly holding his chin in place.

 

“We can’t,” Bruce rasps. “We can’t do this.”

 

“Why? Because you’re Batman?” Jack taunts.

 

He shakes his head. “No…I don’t...I.don’t know.” There’s a reason why they can’t have sex. An important reason. He just can’t think of what it is.

 

“You promised, Bats,” Jack points out. “That we would figure this out. Henri, remember?”

 

Henri. Bhuta—

 

“Trust me, Bruce baby,” the Joker says.

 

Bruce stares at him, his world shrinking as he considers his options—or lack, thereof. There isn’t anyone else to him he can go for help, but he has to know just how far Ra’s has damaged his psyche.

 

“Alright,” he breathes out. “Okay.”

 

Jack nods. “Any time now, Bats.”

 

Bruce takes a deep breath, close his eyes, his clenching gut telling him to lean into the Joker’s touch.

 

“There’s a good boy,” the Joker says, voice oozing silk.

 

At that, Jack’s changling voice, the ethereal presence of the forest, his responsibilities to Gordon and his family, to the island, simply fade into the background.

 

Words, foreign but sure, come to Bruce like before. He speaks them, softly. They taste like honey as they fall from his lips, sweet and comforting, lulling him away to another world. Until a tall form fits into his present like a well-worn piece of the puzzle.

 

“Henri,” Bruce says, breaking the chant with a single, shaken whisper.

 

His mentor’s imprint haunts him.

 

“I’m many things, baby,” Jack says with a laugh, his lips brushing his cheek in a kiss. “Your Henri, I am not-uh,” saying the t with a ‘pop.’

 

Bruce shake himself to and grips Jack’s arms, heartbeat thudding in his ear like a thousand, runaway horses. “Thank God you aren’t,” he mumbles. “He tried to kill me. You, at least, appreciate a little foreplay first.”

 

Jack laughs again, his nose nuzzling his ear. He begins unbuttoning Bruce’s shirt, pushes it off his shoulders and arms. “So glad we understand each other.”

 

Overwhelmed by the sensation, and caught off guard by the strangeness of it all, Bruce is barely aware of Jack stripping him. The other man kneels in front of Bruce, murmurs words that are nearly too soft for Bruce to catch. But he listens, thinks about them, likes them, as Jack guides him to the ground, time passing at inconsistent intervals.

 

When his cheek touches the grass, rainwater from the blades cool against his flesh, he starts. His breath quickens, logic meeting with confusion. He can’t determine what the trigger had been, what had made this, with Jack, different from the others, the women. He hardly has a choice of his own here, but does it matter? Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe—Good God, he’s submitting without a second thought, his inner Bat argues. “Wha—”

 

“Don’t worry,” Jack says swiftly, when, even on his stomach, Bruce gaze is locked on the brilliance of the stars above them. Jack’s hand ghosts over his buttocks, bringing him back to his present. “I came prepared. Found your stash of lube and condoms that first day on the boat. Wouldn’t want to face a pissed off vigilante when he comes to his senses, now would I? We’re building trust, figuring this out together.” Jack grips Bruce’s wrists, squeezing gently. “Arms above your head, Darling.”

 

Bruce hums a vague response, but he obeys. Stretched out like this, he’s vulnerable and, oddly enough, at peace. It’s too much yet not enough—and there’s nothing he can do about it.

 

Maybe, maybe that had been the point Henri had tried to get across. Alfred had always said Bruce had a thick skull.

 

Jack’s slick fingers tease him at his entrance. Bruce moans but bites his lip, drawing blood, before it becomes a sound of abandon, which Henri never liked. His cock awakens beneath him, swelling uncomfortably. He digs his own fingers into the grass, trying to find stability, seeking friction for his eager member, when his thoughts betray him. They drift, floating far off, like on a cloud, reasoning disappearing along with them. His body stills. He doesn’t think he could move his hips, even if he tried.

 

One of Jack’s fingers breach him, then two. Still, Bruce does nothing. He waits. Always waits. Lets himself be used. He remembers now, he thinks. Henri never allowed him to make requests in bed. Why would the Joker?

 

“Interesting,” Jack murmurs above him.

 

A third finger slips in. Bruce knows what’s next, stiffens just before Jack crooks his fingers.

 

Bruce gasps as he hits the sweet spot. Swallowing hard, he blocks the feeling from his mind, ancient words spilling from his lips and evoking obedience to his mentor. His body stiffens, reluctant to give in. The Joker moves his fingers again, to elicit a tell-tale moan, but Bruce is ready. He defends himself against the warped pleasure. He can’t let himself go like that—it is wrong for a man who is trained in the League.

 

He throws the intruder off his back.

 

Just like Henri had taught him.

 

The other man flies through the air, then hits the ground with a solid thump and ill-timed curse.

 

Stumbling to his feet, Bruce dashes away, only to slip to his knees. Palms flat on the earth, and arms shaking, he chants, ignoring everything but what he’d been trained to do.

 

Yet he thinks at the back of his mind, that the Joker should have laughed at that, instead.

 

He gets on one knee, preparing to run, but Jack’s voice stops him.

 

“Fuck this shit, Bats,” Jack says, coughing. He rises to his feet, spitting blood onto the forest floor. “I think I lost a tooth.”

 

Bruce vaguely recalls throwing a punch now, too. Guilt assails him, but he reminds himself he’s not supposed to feel pleasure, not when Henri makes love to him. Nothing.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack complains, approaching him with a wary expression. “You have no idea what’s really going on, do you?”

 

Bruce frowns, silent. What is Jack talking about?

 

“That fucker,” Jack hisses. “He’s gonna pay.”

 

“Ducard is dead.” Bruce feels nothing—no regret, not even satisfaction—by saying so. “I didn’t save him.”

 

“A pity. I would have liked the challenge. Well, someone is gonna pay for this.”

 

Bruce doesn’t know what he means by that, knows nothing but Jack’s hands. They’re hesitant at first. Then, after a moment, dancing across his face.

 

“I won’t try that again,” Jack says, peering at him. “Not yet, anyway. You’re not going to punch me again, are you?”

 

Bruce thinks, sees that Jack isn’t touching his ass, then shakes his head.

 

Jack frowns. “Yeah. Somehow, I don’t believe you. _Say_ it for me, Bruce.”

 

“No, I won’t punch you.”

 

“Good,” Jack says.

 

Soon, Bruce closes his eyes, relishing the lips pressing into his neck, Jack’s breath searing his chilled flesh. A breeze shatters the moment, and he shivers into the barely-there kisses Jack trails down his spine that aren’t enough.

 

“You’re still a good boy, Bruce,” Jack growls softly. “As crazy as fuck and a little lost, but good. I kinda like you this way. Mostly. Thank fuck there’s still something there for me to break, though. I’m counting on that.”

 

The words a caress, but he thinks there is more to them than that. That Jack is as smart as Henri. That Jack knows what to do. That Jack wants to take Henri’s place.

 

And Bruce wants more than this, to sink into Jack’s arms, to present himself, but he knows he can’t ask. He...he doesn’t want to hurt Jack like he’s hurt other men before who’d tried to bed him.

 

He’s confused, and Henri is dead. But there is one thing he can do

 

He tucks his chin to his chest, stiffening his muscles, but at the same time, curling into a protective, humbling posture.

 

Jack curses, a violent word that shatters the calm between them. “I’m not gonna try anything. You don’t have to do that.”

 

But he does.

 

Bruce covers his head with shaking hands, but Jack stops him with the tapping of his wrists. Trapped in a state of confusion, he lets Jack pull them down, allows him to pull him against his chest, kisses forgotten.

 

“I promise you, Bats. This—us—will be so much more fun one day,” Jack says bitterly. “You’re mine, not his. _Damn your Henri.”_

 

“Henri’s dead,” Bruce intones.

 

“Yes,” Jack says.

 

“He’s dead.”

 

Jack hesitates. “Bruce…”

 

His chest constricts with loss. “Dead. Henri’s dead. He’s dead. He told me what to do.”

 

“Fuck,” Jack breathes into his hair. “Fuck broken Bats, stupid islands, and dead Henris. Fuck it all.”

 

Fuck broken Bats, stupid islands, and dead Henris. Fuck it all, Bruce repeats in his head. When Jack hushes him, he thinks he might have said it aloud, too.

 

They stay like this for some time, listening to the forest awaken at dawn, Jack carding his fingers through Bruce’s hair in such a comforting fashion that he prefers to remain quiet.

 

And he thinks that’s what Jack wants him to be.

 

Silent.

 

It’s hours before Bruce comes back to himself.

 

__________

 

 

Shortly after nine am, Gordon tunes into the radio again. He eats a small breakfast—they are all small—and drinks a weak cup of coffee. He has coffee every other day, Bruce and the Joker alternating on the other days. Even with their rationing, they’ll run out in a month. They’d decided to enjoy it now while preparing to hunker down for the winter. They’ll survive on tea soon enough.

 

The radio’s silent. It usually is, but they have to try. He’d heard two distress calls in the last week, but the locations were too far away for them to do any good and he didn’t want to give their own location up to just anyone.

 

According to what he’d heard, society had fallen apart, any higher form of government having vanished. Yet Gordon holds on to hope, however wane, that someone will come back to the coast, to Gotham, looking for survivors.

 

Jimmy enters the cockpit and shuffles over to him with a yawn, his hair sticking up on end. “Hear anything today, Dad?”

 

“Not yet,” Gordon says, handing him the rest of his coffee.

 

Jimmy’s face brightened up. “For me?”

 

“You put in a good day’s work,” Gordon said. And honestly he’s not surprised. Everyone, he assumes, is being careful. Trust is in short supply.

 

“Thanks, Dad.” Jimmy sat on the floor beside him and drank from his cup, slowly. “Can I learn how to use Barbie’ knife? If I’m old enough to drink coffee, I can use a knife.”

 

Gordon doesn’t want to agree, but, thanks to the apocalypse, his son’s logic is far too sound for him to refuse. “I’ll talk to Bruce. But Barbie is another story.”

 

Jimmy makes a face. “Yeah, she can be awfully grumpy.”

 

His daughter has her reasons, no one could argue with that. “She’s doing her best.”

 

“She bosses me like Mom,” Jimmy complains.

 

“She cares about you,” he reminds his son.

 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “I wish she wouldn’t.”

 

“It gives her purpose.”

 

It’s the wrong thing to say. Jimmy looks even more confused.

 

He kneels down and looks Jimmy in the eye. “Like...Batman gives Mr. Wayne purpose.”

 

Jimmy frowns. “But...isn’t he kinda mean? I mean, to criminals? Like the cops are, sometimes, too?”

 

Out of the mouth of babes. Gordon sighs. “Okay, that wasn’t a good example. She doesn’t—“

 

“— _Mayday, Mayday. This is Nightingale—ingale—Nightingale. Report— a hijacking—“_

 

Gordon freezes. He knows that voice.

 

“—five men—aboard—we have a medical emergency. I repeat—

 

“That’s Montoya.” Gordon shoots to his feet and grabs the microphone. “Nightingale, this is Sea Spirit. Sea Spirit. Sea Spirit. What are your coordinates?” he demands. “Over.”

 

“— _Sea Spirit—degrees north—drifting at one knot—blue—Gotham—we—_ ” There is a pause, a shout, then continued shuffling in the background.

 

“What are your coordinates? Over,” he repeats, straining to hear. After a brief moment, he comes to the conclusion someone is fighting with her.

 

Jimmy stares up at him, wide-eyed. “Dad?”

 

“Damn,” Gordon mutters.

 

“Gordon.”

 

Gordon spins on his heel and gawks at Bruce. “The hell?”

 

The billionaire’s feet are bare and layered in mud up to his ankle and disappearing underneath the hem of his pants. His hands hang at his sides, the knuckles torn and bloodied, as if he’d taken out a tough opponent, like a thick tree. Black dress shirt unbuttoned from top to bottom, it sticks out like a sore thumb against the ghostly whiteness of his chest. His hair, tousled as if by the wind and in every direction, and as untamed as the beard he’s been growing, finishes his bizarre, wild look. Gordon’s gaze falls on Bruce’s neck for a closer inspection of what he thinks are cuts, but discovers the scarlet marks littering the area around the pulse—are bites.

 

But that isn’t what shocks him. No, it’s his tortured expression, dark—and gone.

 

The man’s eyes are blown wide, a fathomless abyss. A swirling of midnight. Void of every emotion except for a mounting rage. And scaring the shit out of Gordon in mere seconds.

 

If he didn’t know any better, the man had seen hell and barely survived the trip back, with a pissed off attitude to match.

 

“Jesus, Bruce.” He stares past him, to the Joker, who looks like he’d been socked in the mouth and the eye, hard, by a certain...Bat? He squints at the Joker, finally finding his voice. “What the hell happened to you?” He directs his questions at the psychopath, who appears to be the most reasonable person of the two, at the moment. A scary thought. “When did you get back?”

 

But Bruce answers, instead, his eyes drilling holes in the radio. “Just now,” he says tersely. “That was Montoya, wasn’t it?”

 

“The one and only,” he says.

 

“Try again.”

 

He lifts the radio, intimating another call. “Nightingale, Nightingale, Nightingale. This is Sea Spirit. Sea Spirit. Sea Spirit. What is your emergency? Over.”

 

A moment passes, then another female answers, her voice shaking. “ _Mayday, Mayday—men down—”_

 

Bruce‘s hard expression cracks. “Leslie,” he rasps.

 

“ _Shot went right through his right...they’re taking...the boys, two aliv—”_

 

She stops, abruptly. A cold silence rocks the boat.

 

“Did she…just.” Gordon begins haltingly. “Mention children?”

 

“Shit,” Bruce breathes out, running both hands over his face. “We’ll try again in one minute.”

 

“Jimmy, stay with your sister in the bedroom,” Gordon orders.

 

Jimmy stares at him with wide and pleading eyes. “Aw, Dad—”

 

“Now, Son.”

 

“Okay,” Jimmy says reluctantly, moving like an aged man to the nearest exit.

 

“Who is Leslie?” the Joker asks Bruce once Jimmy disappears down the ladder, the boy talking quietly to himself again.

 

“Thompkins,” Bruce mutters, taking the microphone from Gordon. “Leslie Thompkins.”

 

“The doctor with the clinic on Crime Alley,” Gordon says, recalling the no-nonsense physician in her sixties he’d questioned in the past for various cases.

 

“Crime Alley,” the Joker echoes. “You know her well?”

 

Bruce nods curtly. “She helped me when I was in a pinch.”

 

“She knows who you are,” Gordon says.

 

Bruce looks at him. “She knows who I am and _dead_ if we don’t do something about it.”

 

“You’re not fit to go out there,” Gordon says, his gut feeling—no, his fatherly instinct—taking precedent over any moral obligation he has to help the women and children.

 

Bruce’s expression flattens. “Thanks for the support.”

 

Gordon shakes his head. “Don’t take it that way. You know you’re not in the same shape as before. None of us are.”

 

“So we let them get slaughtered?” Bruce argues.

 

“You’re off your game.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes, you are.”

 

“The hell I am,” Bruce snarls.

 

“Just take a look at yourself!” Gordon finds himself shouting. “You’re dropping weight faster than the rest of us put together. You disappear on us, and none of us, not even you, know what the hell you do when you’re away. Your ability to make sound decisions has tanked. Your head isn’t on straight, Bruce, and hasn’t been since before we got here!”

 

“I’m fine,” Bruce shouts back. “I always am.”

 

“No. You’re. Not,” Gordon grits out. “Not this time. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

 

And he prays he does, soon. Before it’s too late.

 

Bruce doesn’t even flinch at the accusation. “You have no idea—” he breaks off, then retorts, “I’m going.”

 

“I advise against it.”

 

“I wasn’t asking for your advice.”

 

“I can’t let you go in good conscience,” Gordon tries again.

 

Bruce glares at him. “You can’t stop me.”

 

Gordon suppresses another terse reply. He’s never seen the Bat this enraged—at him—or this _irrational_. “Even if you do go after them, you don’t have the coordinates. What then? You hardly have enough fuel to go traipsing around the ocean. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

 

“I have the tech to find them,” Bruce says coldly. “We have to try. They’re kids, Gordon.”

 

Gordon takes a deep breath. “Jesus, I know, Bruce, which is why you can’t leave like this. Unstable—

 

“Unstable?” Bruce echoes, flinching.

 

“Yes, at _best_ ,” Gordon says, watching the first sign of raw emotion flash across Bruce’s face. It brings a measure of relief to Gordon, that Bruce isn’t as far gone as he’d thought, and so he tries to speak calmly. “Son—”

 

Bruce inhales sharply.

 

“—listen to me, please.”

 

The Joker clears his throat. “I’ll go with him. Someone needs to keep him in line.” He sends Bruce a pointed look Gordon isn’t able to interpret.

 

He wants this nightmare could be over, before this, the Joker being Bruce’s chaperone—and not the other way around as it should be—becomes their new normal.

 

Bruce blinks once. “No.”

 

The Joker laughs. “You owe me,” he says, indicating with one hand to the bruising on his face.

 

“We can’t leave any survivors,” Bruce says tonelessly, his body language betraying a cool indifference Gordon thought he’d never see on the Bat.

 

The Joker rolls his eyes. “No shit, Sherlock. Not that I’ll have a problem killing these people, anyway. Nor will you,” he adds. “You’ve already broken your one rule, if you recall.”

 

“I know—and I simply don’t care,” Bruce says. “They’ll come after us if we don’t. Besides, like you said, I already crossed that line.”

 

As his statement sinks in, Gordon is gradually horrified for a second time.

 

He believes, now more than ever, that something is terribly wrong with Bruce.

 

“What happened?” Gordon asks. When Bruce doesn’t answer, he adds, “Out there, in the woods?”

 

And before, to knock Wayne off his game so badly?

 

“Nothing that concerns you, trust me.” Bruce’s hard-as-flint look chills Gordon to the bone. “Jack and I will leave as soon as we gather what we need. I won’t say a word about you and the children.”

 

“I know you take promises to heart, but you don’t have to go that far,” Gordon says. “Montoya is a friend—”

 

“No one,” Bruce vows. “It’s safer for Jimmy and Barbie if they don’t know you’re here. We’ll take things one step at a time. Who knows, I may not have to bring them here to the island.”

 

Gordon knows this isn’t true—Bruce will bring them all to the island and help them survive the winter if it's in his power.

 

God help them all. If Bruce bears that much responsibility, how long will it be before he truly cracks?

 

“And if they’re dead, already?” the Joker asks.

 

Bruce looks beyond the yacht and past the shore, his eyes lost in the expanse. “Then we take every damn thing from that ship, down to the last nail, for ourselves—and get the hell out of Dodge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments really do feed my inspiration! I greatly appreciate those of you who are reading, following and reviewing. <3
> 
> Note: I know that Bruce’s birthday is technically in February. However, I did find one instance/comic/book when it was actually in October. I went with that in this case, since TitG occurred in October, as well. I have other reasons, which you’ll find out in the future. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, michael_was_filled_with_self_loathing, for looking over the last two chapters! <3 I appreciate it so much!
> 
> Warnings in end notes. (Please check them first before reading if you are easily triggered!) 
> 
> Changing things up in this chapter with different POVs. Hope you enjoy the read! :)

 

It takes two hours to prepare the ship for the rescue mission—Bats is thorough, not that Jack minds a closer look into that fascinating mind of his.

 

But after their weapons are accounted for, their food stocked, Jack’s restless. As Bruce goes over several safety measures for the island with Gordon one last time, Jack wanders to the other end of the boat. He finds Barbie in the kitchenette, stuffing her things into a bag she’d made from old shirt from the closet.

 

Per Bruce’s request, they can’t leave anything on the boat that looks like it could belong to the children. A precaution, his darlin’ had said.

 

More like the Bat holding on to his little world with all his strength.

 

Jack shoves his hands in his pockets. “I hear you’re interested in a few pointers.”

 

Barbie barely glances at him, stoic as always. He wonders if she’s fifteen—or a hard-edged cop of fifty, patrolling Gotham’s streets.

 

“Understandable, since Bats can’t know everything, now can he?” he continues.

 

“Your speciality is knives. His isn’t.”

 

Jack nods, eager to agree with something so elemental. “You got that right, Babs. His is fists.”

 

She tenses around the chin. “The name’s Barbie.”

 

He pretends to gag. “To think your dad allowed such an atrocity. To be named after a disproportionate, politically incorrect doll that is consistently labeled an airhead and expected to bear the burden of stupidity all while wearing clothing that would fit a twig better than a girl. I thought he had higher standards than that.”

 

“I like my name.”

 

“Not when I’m Master Of Knives, oh, young protege, you don’t.”

 

“It was my mother’s.”

 

He gasps. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says in the highest falsetto he can muster, raising his hands and pressing them against his cheeks in exaggerated remorse. “I didn’t know.”

 

She glares at him.

 

He drops the facade and says, “I don’t care if the Queen of England gave you that name, toots. It’s horrid.”

 

“I like it,” she says, standing taller.

 

He grins, wags his brows once. “Maybe I should bother your little brother?”

 

She clenches her teeth, eyes afire, like they’d been when Jimmy ate her dessert rations for the week. “Fine. Babs works.”

 

“I’ll show you once we get back, and after we have that hot chocolate I found,” he says amicably, to make up for the name change. “You’ll catch on, I’m sure.”

 

She ties the bag and hefts it over her shoulder. “My dad won’t like it.”

 

“Your father doesn’t like a lot of things.”

 

“He likes you least of all,” she mutters. “In fact, everybody does, except for maybe Bruce.”

 

The jab bounces off of him, but not before he laughs. Oh, she is too precious. They’ll do fine, just fine, working together. “We’ll practice at night. You can sneak out, can’t you?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “My dad’s a cop—and a light sleeper. What do you think?”

 

He leans forward and grins. “I think you’re smart, Babs. Smarter than he realizes.”

 

She studies him. “Think you can provide a distraction during the daytime? So I can slip away from camp?”

 

He wants to giggle at the thought of Gordon’s oldest child sneaking around behind his back, but he doesn’t want to awaken so-called sleeping giant, since Gordon is on the boat, too. “Bruce can,” he offers, because, Bats… _Bats_.

 

Bats can do everything. Mostly. He just chooses not to.

 

She pulls at her bottom lip with her teeth.

 

“He’s the one that mentioned it,” Jack adds.

 

“I know,” she says. “I just…”

 

They both look up, a sound coming from the cockpit above them.

 

Jack listens as Bruce’s footsteps halt, Gordon’s voice bending to the will of the wind and carrying down to the main deck. Even Babs listens, as the other men discuss Montoya’s approximate location.

 

He thinks it would be rather humorous to run out of fuel trying to save these people and end up stranded in the middle of the ocean during an apocalypse, with his Bats. Apparently, the commish and Bruce don’t feel the same way.

 

“You just…what?” Jack presses.

 

“Never mind,” she mumbles.

 

He cocks his head at her. “What is it?”

 

“I don’t want to stress him out.”

 

Jack makes a face. “You see it, too?”

 

“He’s taking care of all of us.”

 

He nods. “Quite well, considering.”

 

“Building that house, hunting—”

 

“He really does bring it upon himself, though.”

 

Her eyes lift to the cockpit, as if she expected to see Wayne. “I don’t know. None of this was his fault, and he...he’s a natural leader.”

 

“Did they teach you that at school, hmm?”

 

She frowns. “No. I read. A lot. I know things.”

 

“But Bats is complicated.” And deliciously so. He can’t wait to navigate through everything that is his Bats and pick out what pleases him.

 

She shrugs. “I guess so. He’s rich.”

 

“Was.”

 

“And handsome.”

 

Jack leans in. “And what does that-uh have to do with it?”

 

She blushes. “Cute guys have complicated lives in all the books.”

 

“He is rather easy on the eyes,” Jack hastens to agree. “And the most irritatingly, ‘issues’ laden man I’ve ever met. Huh. Complicated. You could be right about that. But listen, Babs. I know things, too. Brucie Boy doesn’t have to worry so much. He won’t about this. In fact, I guarantee it.”

 

“You can’t guarantee something like that.”

 

He thinks of the man who’d twisted Bruce’s mind into believing he can’t feel pleasure when he was with a man. Henri, who’d stripped the Bats of his confidence and power during their lovemaking and possibly at other times, too. Ra’s, who’d manipulated Bruce so that his student would be ignorantly satisfied with, and shackled by, a shallow intimacy for the rest of his life.

 

And he thinks of himself, who knows more about breaking a poor, unsuspecting soul and molding them into a masterpiece than anyone.

 

He’ll have all the time in the world for it, too, as long as they don’t bring too many people to the island to distract Bats.

 

His lips curve at the corners, then twist with a viciousness he feels when he’s in a mood to wreck things. Even the Bat. “Oh, believe me. I can. I have practice making things do what I want them to.”

 

She turn slightly green, composure rattled. Good. She needs to be frightened of him.

 

“Just once,” she says.

 

He doesn’t want her to be that scared of him. Maybe some tough love, as they say, is necessary. “It’s all—or nothing, toots.”

 

“It’s once or nothing, _J_ ,” she retorts.

 

He frowns. “Did you read Bats’ jour—”

 

“Barbie?” Bruce asks from above them.

 

As he descends from the ladder. Jack throws Babs a hurt look. Barbie? he mouths.

 

She makes a face at him, then shifts on her feet, watching Bruce as he lands on deck like a cat. Jack loves this about Bats—he’s quiet, making every step count.

 

“It’s Babs,” she mutters.

 

“Pardon?” Bruce asks, padding over to them.

 

“I want to be called Babs,” she says a little louder.

 

Gordon peers from overhead. “What is with all the name changes?”

 

She shrugs. “Just wanted something different.”

 

Gordon looks at her, a slight frown on his face. “I don’t know.”

 

“Look on the bright side,” Jack says helpfully. “It could be worse. She could’ve asked to be a Harriet, or a Prudence.”

 

Bruce shoots Jack a look. “I’m sure that Barbie thought long and hard about the name, right?”

 

Jack starts to whistle, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

 

“Absolutely,” Babs says, glaring at Jack.

 

Bruce shifts his gaze to to Gordon, who prepares to leave. “It may take us more than a day to get to them, and if we meet trouble, then even longer. If we don’t come back—“

 

Gordon holds up a hand. “No, don’t say it.”

 

“But if something—”

 

The commissioner’s mouth flattens. “No—

 

“Gordon—”

 

“Son,” Gordon asserts. “No.”

 

Bruce’s mouth snaps shut.

 

Jack watches them and considers, in gleeful silence, that the father-son bond between the two men is stronger than ever. And if that doesn’t roll in his favor, then he’ll eat his own foot.

 

“You’ll return to us,” Gordon says. “I know you.”

 

Bruce nods slowly. “We’ll see you soon, then.” He turns to look at Babs. “You keep practicing, alright?”

 

“I’ll be able to kick your ass by the time you get back,” she says easily.

 

Bruce’s harsh mouthline morphs into a genuine grin. “I can’t wait.”

 

“Don’t worry about us,” she says, staring at him with what looks like adoration in her eyes. “We’ll keep busy. I’ll make sure we finish that rope ladder.” She hesitates. “Be careful, Bruce.”

 

Bruce’s eyes crinkle with the usual kindness he emanates when he’s around the children. But it’s clear he misses just how much Babs looks up to him.

 

Jack broods, a habit he thinks he’s been picking up from his darling. And although he won’t steal the girl from Bruce, not exactly, all that hero-worship is unnecessary. He’ll have to shake things up. Won’t hurt to have Babs on his side, too.

 

“I will. We both will,” Bruce adds, glancing sideways at Jack. “Right?”

 

He looks at him, affronted. “Well, it’s not like ‘Danger’ is my middle name. That claim to fame is all you, Bats.”

 

Bruce snorts, Gordon muttering a ‘what the hell have I gotten myself into,’ all at the glorious, same time.

 

Once the long-suffering goodbyes were made, and Gordon and Babs nestled in the lifeboat and headed back for the island, Jack clutches a startled Bruce and guides them both toward the bedroom door. “It’s time for that Batshave.”

 

“Jack, we talked about this,” Bruce says, arching a brow. “I’m leaving it, remember? I’m recognizable as Wayne even with the beard.”

 

“Nononono,” he says, leading him into the bedroom.

 

Bruce groans. “But Jack—”

 

“Don’t ‘Jack’ me,” he says, practically throwing him into the bathroom when Bruce barely resists. He frowns. “Really, Bats, you haven’t been eating enough to save a cat.”

 

Bats stumbles against the wall but steadies himself with one hand. “There isn’t enough to save a bird, let alone a cat.”

 

Jack snorts. “Your birdies will survive on a few hundred of calories a day. You, on the other hand, I’m not so sure.”

 

“Birdies?”

 

“Things have to change,” Jack continues, ignoring the question. “You gotta eat.”

 

Bruce crosses his arms. “Is this why we’re in the bathroom?” he deadpans. “For a picnic?”

 

Jack looks him over with a critical eye. “No—ooo, of course not. You have to look all hot and disheveled, remember?”

 

“But, I’m cold. I’m always cold.”

 

“Like you wanna have sex, genius,” Jack says.

 

Bruce’s expression goes blank, as it does when he’s wrong, or confused, Jack has started to notice. “Oh.”

 

Jack shoves him in front of the mirror. “Let’s get you in the mood, huh?”

 

Bruce digs in his heels. “This isn’t the right time, Jack.”

 

“No,” Jack says softly, and gently lifts Bruce’s chin with two fingers. “Look.”

 

Bruce’s eyes flicker to the mirror—and he stops. Just simply... _stops_.

 

Pride swells in Jack’s chest as Bruce stares at himself for the first time since their escapade in the woods. And not just stares—it’s clear he’s drawn to the sight, mesmerized by the changes Jack has made to him.

 

The dark as night, tortured look in his eyes. The imprint of Jack’s teeth on his pale skin. Blood flecking his flesh, a sign the marks are there to stay. His hair, pulled apart by Jack’s fingers, patches sticking up like the hair of cover models. Lips, swollen, evidence of Jack’s assault upon them in the woods.

 

“What the hell did you do to me?” Bruce thunders, pulling at his unbuttoned collar. He peels the fabric away and glares at his skin, inspecting the half-dozen bites now around the collarbone and upward, courtesy of Jack.

 

Jack basks in it, his masterpiece.

 

His darling’s eyes are blown even wider the more he looks at himself in the mirror. Bruce can’t tear his eyes away from the newly formed bites, scarring inevitable.

 

Jack hums. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re turned on.”

 

Bruce stares at him—if looks could kill, maim, or encourage sex, his would, Joker thinks happily. All three.

 

He giggles.

 

“I...you...I...” Bruce spits out in an all-too-adorable stammer.

 

“They’re perfect, aren’t they?” Jack muses, touching one of the bites for himself.

 

Bruce pulls away from him. “You marked me!”

 

“Well, duh,” Jack says smugly. “The opportunity was _handed_ to me.”

 

“Dammit, Jack,” Bruce hisses into the mirror, eyes boring into the scars as if sight alone could destroy them.

 

“No need to beat yourself up about it.”

 

“They’ll know,” Bruce growls.

 

“Gordon already knows,” he points out.

 

Scowling, Bruce turns his back, craning his neck to look at the others. They litter his skin, gloriously, like a map. “Fuck. Jack, why—?”

 

“You know why,” Joker breathes into his ear.

 

Bruce’s eyes flicker away from his reflection to meet Jack’s, but briefly. He lifts a finger to the mark burrowed in the curve on his neck, traces the shape left from one deep bite, studying it. Accepting it. Needing it.

 

Jack sees it in his eyes, every last emotion. And when Bruce moistens his lips with a wide sweep of his tongue, Jack is sure he doesn’t even notice it himself.

 

“Dammit, Jack,” Bruce complains. “It’ll scar. All of them. _Why_?”

 

“You know why I did it,” Jack snorts.

 

Bruce drops his hand and swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I’m not sure I do.”

 

Jack hushes him, pressing his lips into the curvature of his neck. He licks one of the bites, relishing the shiver that trembles through Bruce. “Feel that? You belong to me. You always have.”

 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Bruce snaps.

 

“You sure about that-uh?” Jack covers the back of Bruce’s neck with one hand and squeezes. “You sure you _want_ to belong to no one, Brucie Boy?”

 

“Wha—?” Bruce’s breath hitches, and his head lowers like a broken flower under his touch.

 

Jack can hardly contain his elation. “Will you look at that?”

 

Bruce blinks as if to fight the control, but Joker’s hand is firm.

 

“Henri was kinda tall. Like me. Wasn’t he?”

 

Bruce makes a small, desperate sound, a keening that sets Jack’s stomach afire.

 

“Wasn’t he?” Jack hisses.

 

“Y-yes.”

 

“He did this often?” He strokes the Bat’s skin with his thumb, murmuring nonsensical words to each caress, loving that his darling is right where he wants him. And he’s not the least bit surprised when Bruce looks like he’s not all there, nearly slipping into his subspace.

 

“I’m not…” Bruce swallows, his breath escaping his lips in shallow gasps. “I’m not sure.”

 

“You’re not sure—or you don’t want to tell me?”

 

Bruce blinks. “He did it...a lot.”

 

Jack smiles. Who knew his darling could be so beautifully submissive?

 

“If you’re so certain you don’t belong to anyone,” Jack challenges softly. “Why don’t you free yourself?”

 

Bruce struggles for a moment, like he can’t make up his mind about what he should do. Jack’s hold on the back of his neck only strengthens.

 

Bats isn’t going _anywhere_.

 

“No,” Bruce says, closing his eyes, breath hitching at the end as if choking on a sob. “I’m not sure.”

 

“I can see that-uh,” Jack soothes, stroking his neck with a slow motion of his thumb. “It must be painfully overwhelming, to have awakened this monster in yourself, so to speak. But don’t worry. I’m here to guide you.”

 

“Enough,” Bruce says thickly.

 

“Agree to the shave first.”

 

“You’re crazy,” Bruce whispers.

 

“Always,” he purred. “But you’re crazier. You gave me this freedom.”

 

Bruce grimaces. “I had no choice.”

 

No, he’s always had a choice. “You have to look relaxed, Bats,” Jack says, “like you haven’t spent the past two weeks breaking your back, shaving the last thing on your mind. They need to believe the act, see the vain son-of-a-bitch called Wayne.”

 

Bruce opens his eyes but says nothing.

 

Jack tightens his grip. “C’mon, Darling,” he soothes. “You know I’m right.”

 

As Bruce wilts under his hand, Jack watches for it, the awakening in his expression. The power, washing over him while his own disappears, Jack draining it from every muscle of his body.

 

He recognizes it the second Bruce’s shoulders roll forward, the playboy wavering on his feet like he’s had one too many drinks.

 

“Oh, you,” Joker says, breathless from excitement. “You’re so, so good like this, Bruce.”

 

Bruce exhales slowly. “Jack. Please.”

 

“I wanna hear it,” he sings.

 

Bruce shakes his head.

 

Jack grips his chin, holding it in place. “I’m waiting,” he breathes into Bruce’s ear. He nips the tip of the lobe with his teeth.

 

A muffled groan escapes Bruce’s lips. “Let go of me.”

 

“Every moment you waste, those poor people, including Leslie, are at the mercy of those bastards. And for what? Your pride?”

 

The Bat’s jaw clenches in refusal.

 

Jack tsks. “People starving. Dying. Kids. Think on that, Bats.”

 

“Dammit, Jack,” Bruce croaks, and he leans into him with all his weight, tucking his head into Jack’s shoulder.

 

Jack eases his grip, his hand sweeping down Bruce’s shoulder possessively. “You agree.”

 

It isn’t a question.

 

“Yes,” Bruce says, his muffled voice shaking with effort. “Yes. I’ll shave it off.”

 

“Clean-cut?” He waits a beat, running a hand through Bruce’s hair. “All of it?”

 

Again, not a question. Bruce lifts his head and nods, his practiced composure returning.

 

Pleased with him, Jack pats him on the back. “Better get to it. I wanna watch.”

 

With his head still bowed, Bruce reaches for the razor, blindly.

 

“Wait.” Jack stops him with a mere touch of his hand on his wrist.

 

Bruce freezes.

 

Good, Jack thinks. He’s learning.

 

“I changed my mind. I’ll do you the favor,” Jack says easily.

 

Indignation flashes across Bruce’s face. “I can shave myself.”

 

“No, _I’ll_ do it.” He cups the back of Bruce’s neck, preventing him from straightening up in defiance. “No one knows the contours of your face like I do. Trust me.”

 

A moment passes before Bruce breathes into the touch, through his nostrils. Jack takes his silence as agreement.

 

“This is hard for you, isn’t it?” Jack taunts. “Letting go? Then again, it seems to me that the dam has been, uh, opened. Maybe you lo- _ove_ it.”

 

Bruce sets his jaw with a tick of his cheek.

 

“Good thing it’s just us, hmm?” Jack says.

 

Bruce steals a glance, torment brewing in his eyes. “Don’t toy with me, Joker.”

 

He loves the way his darling ends up begging when he’s trying command the situation. “No one will know you let me shave your face,” he promises. “It’ll be our lit-tle secret. All of it, even this.”

 

As expected, Bruce glances at his feet, rather than face the truth head on.

 

“Hey.” Jack tips his chin up for a second time. “Look at me. _Look at me_.”

 

Bruce pulls his gaze from the floor. He’s beautiful and tortured under those lashes—Jack has never seen anything like it.

 

“I will _never_ lie to you,” Jack vows. “When I say they’ll never know, I mean that.”

 

Bruce’s mouth flattens, as if in displeasure, but his face betrays him. His eyes lock onto Joker’s with the intensity of a starved man’s. Empty, while his past life is in shambles. Desperate for attention, since everyone he loves is gone. Yearning for direction, guilt having hollowed out his heart.

 

“I’ll never lie to you, Bats,” he says again.

 

Bruce’s face twists with unease. “You have before,” he says, voice hoarse and laced with pain.

 

Music to his ears.

 

“That was then, this is now,” Jack points out. “Things are different when there’s less than five percent of the population left in the world. It’ll be our little secret. Ours, Bats.”

 

Bruce waits a beat, but his face betrays a fresh trust. “Okay.”

 

Jack’s lips sweep across Bats’ cheek. He breathes in the sweat and sea of his skin, eager to dine in it but holding himself back. There will be time, much much later. It will be a divine treat. He’ll wait.

 

“So compliant, are we?” Jack murmur, relishing in the moment, in this unexpected, unsolicited effect of their little impromptu session.

 

He’s hardly worked for it. No—wait—that isn’t right. He had worked for it back in Gotham. Still, he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. This is better than anything he could ever imagine.

 

It’s also a sucker punch to his gut. He’s not sure he’s felt this way before. That he could ever feel this way again after—

 

Nonononono. _No_. His past, as shadowed as the Bat’s, hangs grotesquely behind him, as it should. He says a silent fuck you to it—to this island that dares fuck with his head like it does Bruce’s—and thinks ahead to what matters now. Bruce Wayne.

 

He wants to be the object of this man’s complete adoration. Now that he’s had a glimpse of something similar, he’s not sure he can give hope he’ll receive it in full one day.

 

He wants it, wants it badly. He wants to split him apart. Shatter what is left in his world. Make every last inch of this man _his_.

 

“Can we just get on with it?” Bruce asks, expression shuttering. “We have to go, Jack.”

 

Jack bites his lip, lets Bruce watch him twist it in thought. “I just wanted to see how far his control went. I’m rather partial to the beard.”

 

“I know,” Bruce says, voice rough and saying much, much more than those two words afford. “And I know what you were doing.”

 

“Seems to me that he’s fucked you up. The Batman—a submissive? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s the other things he’s done, as if he took what is natural to you, and twisted it, beating you down. I’m just...surprised.”

 

He’s more surprised that this conditioning has seeped into the other parts of Bruce’s life, tainting more than the man knows. If this knowledge falls into the wrong hands, the probability that Bruce will be irreparably damaged—and no longer recognizable or functional as the Bat—is astronomical.

 

And although Joker loves to turn the world inside out, to watch it burn on its own, he’s not sure he would like _that_.

 

Bruce doesn’t react. In fact, his expression is resigned, accepting of it. He’s portraying himself as the submissive he’d been conditioned to be. “I—I know. But you’re here.”

 

“Yeah, I am.”

 

“You’re here,” Bruce repeats.

 

Joker’s stomach clenches. “But he’s fucked you up in a big way, Bats.”

 

Bruce flinches. “How’d you know? About…”

 

Jack hesitates before outright revealing the elephant in the room. “That he most likely took care of your _toilette_ himself when you were curled up by a fire in Bhutan?”

 

Bruce’s cheeks tinge red. He nods.

 

“I’ve been around the block before, Bruce,” Jack says. “As a dom, mostly. Once in a while as a sub just to screw with people. Saw a lot of, uh, let’s say, _different_ things. Your impeccable, playboy persona is a red flag. Jeeves couldn’t have taught you everything, now could he?”

 

His observation breaks the moment. The goodness of it. The truth has a habit of doing that.

 

Maybe that’s why he loves it so much. If only Bruce can accept it, too.

 

The ghostly whites of Bruce’s eyes start to reappear. “Let’s not talk about it, anymore,” he says, turning his head away from the mirror.

 

“Fine by me.” Jack picks up the razor. “Henri is a thorn in my side, too, you know,” he mutters. “Like the island’s yours.”

 

Bruce sucks in a breath, glancing sharply at him.

 

Jack looks straight into his eyes. “You talk about it in the journal. Vaguely, and in few words, but I can read between the lines, Darling. I know you think—”

 

“I think nothing,” Bruce grits out.

 

“No? No ghosts of girlfri—”

 

When Bruce backs him up against the shower stall in two seconds flat, Jack’s too surprised to do a damn thing about it.

 

“Hehe,” he laughs. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”

 

Bruce snarls. “You don’t understand,” he says, fisting the collar of his shirt with one hand. “And you never will. So shut the hell up.”

 

Jack smacks his lips, grinning. “I will, if you will.”

 

“It’s not what you think.”

 

“Doth thou protest too much?” Jack mocks.

 

“It’s not…” Bruce’s nostrils flare. “It’s not what you think.”

 

“Just like this isn’t?”

 

Bruce’s brow furrows. He loosens his grip. “What?”

 

Jack clears his throat. “You forgot one thing.” He raises his free hand and curls it around the back of Bruce’s neck. He strokes the Bat’s skin with his thumb, wondering, again, if Bruce had purposely antagonized him so he would take charge. “Strange, isn’t it? That you didn’t totally incapacitate me, hmm?”

 

When the billionaire’s eyes glaze over almost immediately, Jack is almost certain Bruce had provoked him with that goal in mind, just to be comforted like he had in the past.

 

“Let me indulge you,” Jack murmurs. He squeezes that precious flesh, holding on even when Bruce flinches from pain. “Is this what you wanted?”

 

With a drawn out moan, Bruce lowers his head. Surrender is a gorgeous look on the Bat—especially on Bruce, if he were to be honest—but Jack isn’t pleased this time. He lets go, shoving him away with a cold vengeance.

 

Stumbling back, Bruce hits the opposite wall in the shower with a smack. His eyes snap wide open with hurt.

 

Jack meets his shocked gaze, undeterred. “I don’t give a shit about your feelings. I never have and I never will. You will not do that again,” he says through clenched teeth. “I will not be manipulated. If you do, expect to suffer the consequences.”

 

Breathing heavily, Bruce blinks twice before looking away.

 

“Do you understand, Bruce?” he asks, inching his way back into his personal space. “Not when we’re alone like this. You do not provoke me to get your way.”

 

Bruce’s cheeks flush, shame riding high on his cheekbones.

 

Jack ignores it. He ignores Bruce’s hurt, his desires, everything. And, instead, maintains his control of the situation. It’s the only way he can needle his way into Henri’s carefully crafted world of Bruce Wayne.

 

“Sit,” Jack orders.

 

He doesn’t miss the way Bruce refuses to acknowledge or even accept the rule, but it isn’t a concern now. Bruce is right—they have to leave. Jack will just have to give him a lesson in boundaries another time. With emotions running rampant in Bruce and the others, and so much at stake, he’s sure it’ll come up sooner than later.

 

Bruce will have to decompress somehow, and it may as well be with him.

 

Face carefully blank, Bruce takes a seat on the narrow bench.

 

When he watches Jack’s face with each stroke, his hands resting palms up on his thighs, the Joker knows they’re making progress.

 

But when he thinks about what he’d told Bruce, that he doesn’t care for his feelings—and the possibility that it could have been a lie—his fingers clench the razor in a death grip, as he waits for the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach to fade.

 

Bruce isn’t the only one the island is after.

 

 

_____________________

 

 

Montoya silently checks off another box on her bucket list—a two-week vacation on a yacht.

 

She can hardly believe she’d been planning her holidays around her girlfriend’s employment a month ago. Now her girlfriend is dead—and no one will be ‘working’ for a long, long time. Society had collapsed state-wide and beyond, with still no word if the same has happened across seas. She assumes it has and, since, has carefully planned her every move based on that one simple horror.

 

The gag forces her to breathe through her nose. Disgusting doesn’t even cover it. The stench of loss and death and rotten flesh permeates the air like the infected here, too, even this far from the shore. But, she thinks it has more to do with the still form on the other side of the boat, wounds left unattended, and the net of dead fish, splayed red and silver across the deck.

 

Nausea creeps into her throat like the plague, but she stuffs it down, refusing to show weakness. They already hate her. She can’t draw more attention to herself. If she wants the boys from the clinic survive, _she_ has to survive. She can’t be a martyr, as sensible as giving up seems right now.

 

With even breaths, she checks the knots that bind her hands together for the upteenth time, then the rope around her ankles. The bind are holding, but if she can inch her way to the bench, there’s a sharp corner she can use to cut them.

 

“We’ll be there in two minutes, Boss,” the short, washed-out blonde at the wheel says.

 

Beside him, the boss—or the Brute, as she calls him—cranes his massive neck to stare back at Montoya and the man guarding her with beady eyes. “Bring her to me.”

 

Sven looks down his crooked nose at her. “You heard him. Get up.”

 

He spares a glance at the rotting flesh beside her, grimacing. She squints up at him, noting with satisfaction that he seems as uncomfortable with the corpse as she is.

 

After he cuts the bounds at her ankles, she struggles to her feet. Her stomach sours when his grubby paw pulls her up by the arm. She detests how dependent she is on him to rise at all.

 

“You make one smart move, say one wrong thing, you’re dead,” Sven says, yanking the gag from Montoya’s mouth, rubbing her skin raw.

 

She breathes first, then sends him a smile full of teeth. “I’m dead, anyway.”

 

It always happens in threes. Bad things. Why would her death be any different?

 

The first cop they’d killed filled the bellies of their captors days ago. One of the boys had been too sick to know that the dumplings in his soup hadn’t been dumplings at all.

 

The second cop—wasted when that other boat had tried to overtake the Brute and his gang, the body swept away in a strong current.

 

She’s the third, unless the sick boy kicks the bucket first. She thinks the boy might be spared more tragedy if he died quickly. All of them would.

 

She can hardly believe she’s thinking…She shakes some sense into herself. Although it’s not the first time she’s considered mercy killing the group of teenagers she’d rescued, she doesn’t have the stomach for it. Then again, she doesn’t have the stomach for watching them suffer, the emotional trauma that will never end even if they’re rescued.

 

Sven grabs her by the shoulder, digging in right where the bullet had grazed her. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of pulling away.

 

“That may be,” he says, “But they aren’t.”

 

His eyes flickers to the others, both the young and the old, and even the blind, bound and gagged beside her on the floor.

 

Montoya swallows forcibly. “I’ll cooperate.”

 

Sven sneers at her. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

 

He jerks her arm and leads her away, directly over another dead body. She allows herself to be pulled towards the cockpit, telling herself she’s smarter to be compliant. The Brute is grotesquely young, younger than her by five years, seven tops, she thinks, but outweighs her by a solid seventy pounds. He isn’t pretty to look at, but ugly suited him just like it did every last cannibalistic sicko on this ship.

 

And now the bastards plan to trick some other fool onto the boat, for their meal or pleasure. Shockingly, she’s been neither, but a workhorse. They’ve taken advantage of her athletic physique on a regular basis, forcing her into the bloody, bacteria-infested water to gather what’s left of ships and people they’ve blown up. She’s considered drowning herself, but they blindfold the boys, keeping half of them teetering dangerously near the edge of the boat, the others subdued with a knife at their throat.

 

It’s simple. She screws up—the kids are barbecue either way. These bastards—all five of them—have all the control, every single damn one of them.

 

The Brute watches her approach. She curls her lips down and lowers her eyes. It’s easy enough to identify him by the leer on his face. He’s missing a front tooth, courtesy of the fight she’d given when they’d first met, breaking her two of her fingers and spraining her wrist in the process. He’d forced her into starvation for two days, also nursing the ribs Sven had bruised. While she’d been left alone with her injuries and misery alike, another prisoner had insisted on feeding her and been allowed to tend to her periodically. Without her, Montoya’s certain she would’ve died. And although she doesn’t know her by name, or how long she’d been a prisoner before Montoya, her resilience shines through.

 

Montoya spares a glance back at her now. She’s first in the row, hidden behind sacks of food, her limp, greasy hair covering half off her face but her eyes are alert.

 

Good, Montoya thinks. The boys are listless, too weak to pay any attention, the doctor barely hanging on, herself. Someone needs to be on guard if she isn’t there to help them.

 

“Move it,” Sven snarls in her ear. “We don’t have time for this.”

 

She clenches her jaw, but thinks twice about breathing solely through her nose now that the gag has been removed. She releases what tension she can, her muscles screaming at her to be ready, to prepare for any escape. She takes a large gulp of air through her mouth, but the room spins before she can take another.

 

Sven holds her upright, grubby hand on her elbow. Repulsed, she straightens her spine, easing herself away from him as much as she can.

 

He smells gross, like a can of tuna, left out in the sweltering sun. He looks it, too, skin as tanned as leather, flecks of God knows what entrenched in his beard.

 

Another man stands by the Brute, lowering his binoculars. “It’s the Sea Spirit, alright.” He looks at his boss. “And one man.” He hesitates.

 

The Brute narrows his eyes. “Yes?”

 

Binocular Man shrugs. “It looks like Bruce Wayne?”

 

The Brute’s eyes raise. “Gotham’s Prince?”

 

“I’d recognize that face anywhere,” Binocular Man says, smirking. “Should be easy, this one. It looks like he’s alone.”

 

Montoya feels sick. The situation had just gone from bad to worse. Bruce Wayne? What the fu— _That’s_ who had responded to the emergency?

 

The poor bastard won’t know what hit him once these men overtake him, and it’s all her fault. She’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. She’d made contact through the radio after the men went below deck. She’d thought it had been a miracle. A stroke of luck. The bastards had wanted her to use the radio.

 

Oh, God, she’d been played. And now Gotham’s richest asshole is going to die, meet a worse death than that of his parents.

 

She’d feel a little satisfaction taking Wayne down a notch or two—he’d crashed into her car one stormy May evening—but she wouldn’t wish this kind of torture and pain on anyone.

 

Sven pushes her toward the Brute. “She’ll be useful getting him on the boat.”

 

The Brute studies her. “You will listen to what I tell you.”

 

Montoya throws her shoulder back and lifts her chin. She won’t cower in front of him. But neither will she trade her life for that of an airhead. She can keep the others alive—he can’t. His money’s no good here. Neither are his good looks. Even if he has a fraction of the strength his parents—good God, his butler—had, she’s not sure he’d survive a day on this damn ship. Still, it doesn’t seem right to throw a lamb to the wolves. She’ll bury her guilt now—as for forgiveness from the dead man later.

 

“What do you need me to do?” she asks.

 

“You will engage with him to bring him aboard,” the Brute says, before nodding to Binocular Man, and the other man, a red-head with the stocking cap named Felix. “Or they will shoot your friend.”

 

Binocular Man grins and pats the gun at his side, as does Felix. Montoya looks back at the woman, whose eyes have grown as wide as saucers.

 

Her heart drops when she sees the woman’s shock. She’s not sure her friend will be as level-headed as she has been in the past. This...changes things.

 

She draws a breath. “Engage—how?”

 

“He’s a playboy. Flirt.”

 

“I’m not into men,” she says. Even beautiful ones.

 

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

 

“Fine,” Montoya says flatly.

 

The Brute smiles. “You are very cooperative. It surprises me.”

 

“I’m happy to live up to and beyond your standards.”

 

“He’ll be here soon. Silence!” The Brute turns his massive head, shoulders stretching as wide as the horizon before them, like a well-oiled machine.

 

And that’s when Montoya sees it, The Sea Spirit. The boat flows with the lazy current, its owner seemingly unconcerned that the Nightingale is up ahead, in need. Granted, they weren’t close enough for him to read the situation on the boat.

 

Binocular Man watches him again through the viewfinder, then hands the binoculars to The Brute. “He’s...lounging. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

 

Of course he’s enjoying his boat. He’s already forgotten. It has been three days since her distress call, after all.

 

The Brute watches, even as the boat drifts closer and Wayne’s facial features sharpen into focus.

 

Montoya takes in every detail, still processing the fact that this rich kid had survived the infected—and perhaps on his own. Her eyes follow the loose form of his unbuttoned, white shirt, billowing like a sail, revealing a pale chest and ribs sticking through skin. Windswept hair falling across his face. A glass filled with—is that ice?—a dark liquid. Maybe wine. Wine. Oh, sweet Jesus—how the hell does he still have something so delicious to drink?

 

Even the rich don’t go broke during an apocalypse.

 

Moistening her lips, she peers at him again, now noticing other alarming details.

 

Wayne gets to his feet, clinging the railing as he walks the side of the boat, eyes unfocused in the opposite direction of The Nightingale. His unsteady gait indicates he’s drunk, but...she blinks, takes a second look at him. Given the hollow look of his cheekbones, dark circles under his eyes, greasy hair, and pale skin, and his general unhealthy appearance, she deduces he’s as malnourished as they are.

 

He’s obviously been dealt a bad hand like the rest of them.

 

Pity mixes with guilt, forming a lump in her throat.

 

Wayne turns and nearly spits out his wine. He swallows, then gapes at them. “Oh my God, it’s you,” he exclaims. “The Nightingale.”

 

The Brute grips the railing with his large paws, scanning the rest of the boat. “Mr. Wayne, isn’t it?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“I’m Zachariah Anthony, and these are my friends. You heard our distress call, and came to rescue us. That is admirable.”

 

“I did? Oh, right. Right.” Wayne’s head bobs up and down. “I sure did. Everything okay?” Before The Brute can speak, Wayne holds up a hand. “Hold on. Don’t answer that yet.”

 

They watch as he tips his head back, guzzling the rest of his drink.

 

Montoya doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You gotta be kidding me.”

 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs contentedly. Smiling, he tosses the glass behind him. It shatters.

 

Montoya looks disdainfully at him. Such a waste, in more ways than one.

 

“I never did get to christen this baby.” He winks. “Now, what’s wrong? I couldn’t quite catch it over the radio.”

 

The Brute turns to Montoya and nods.

 

She swallows and steps forward, Sven holding her arms down so that Wayne can’t see the rope binding her wrists. “I’m afraid we’ve run out of food, and one of the boys is sick.”

 

“Food I can help you with,” Wayne says, waving a hand as if he had a stockpile right beside him. “But I’m no doctor. You said there is a boy on the boat?”

 

She nods. “Can you help us?”

 

He narrows his eyes, cocking his head at her. “That depends. What’s in it for me?”

 

He chooses to be a shrewd businessman now? She tamps down her irritation and looks at The Brute, nods again for her to continue. She might as well make use of those acting classes she took more than a decade ago and years spent undercover. She has no pride left. No quality of life left, either.

 

Leaning against the railing, she allows her lips to curve into a smooth smile, baring her neck. Wayne’s eyes drop to her collarbone, following the low neckline to her breasts.

 

“Oh, I can think of something for a handsome man like you,” she says softly.

 

Wayne blinks, giving her another once over. “Yeah?”

 

“Do you like cops?”

 

He shrugs. “I guess. Why?”

 

Is he that much of an idiot? “You don’t remember me, do you?”

 

He peers at her. “Oh, believe me, if we’d met before I’d remember.”

 

Unbelievable. He’s really this stupid. “It’ll be fun,” she says. “God knows we need more of that right now, right?”

 

“What? Oh, yeah, I agree,” he says, openly leering at her chest.

 

“You’ll come aboard and help us?”

 

He licks his lips and peers at the other men. “They look a little...dangerous.”

 

Her mouth curves into a smirk. “So do you.” She pauses, then whispers,“In bed.”

 

He laughs and jumps onto the edge of the yacht, more skillfully than what she expects from him. “That’s what they say. Not sure my friends will appreciate the competition, but okay.”

 

“Friends?” she repeats.

 

“Uh-huh. Friends.” He wags his brows. “Maybe we can try a threesome? Foursome?”

 

Sven and The Brute exchange a look.

 

Panic floods her chest. Oh, hell no.

 

He grins, blinding her with a show of perfect white teeth. “Irene and Amanda. They’ve been wonderful company, but slept in today. They’re pretty fed up with the fact that we ran out of gas— _again_.”

 

She silently pleads with him to shut up. He’s going to kill everyone on that boat.

 

“You...ran out?” the Brute asks, arching a brow. “A pity, but we have enough to spare.”

 

Wayne’s shoulders drop, his expression filling with relief. “Oh, thank God. I really wanted to get my butler back. He just…l-left.” He wipes at his eyes. “S-sorry...I keep getting emotional.”

 

“Left?” Montoya repeated.

 

Wayne sniffs. “Yeah. Took off, the day it happened.”

 

“I…I’m sorry.”

 

“He left without a word.” Wayne makes a face of disgust. “How could he do that? And I thought I could trust him, after all these years.”

 

“That’s horrible.”

 

“I know,” Wayne bemoans. “I need to find him. He’s the only one of us who knows how...how to cook. And clean. I mean, look at me,” he says, spreading his arms like he’s showing off. “Does this look like billionaire attire? Only Alfred knows how to get my stains out. He’s the best at ironing, too. I feel like a wrinkled prune.”

 

Montoya’s mouth drops open. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is he living in a damn fantasy world?

 

“Hey,” Wayne suddenly says to The Brute. “Do you think you could help me out? The girls and I broke the bed last night. I’m not sure how to fix it.” He looks him up and down. “You’re a big guy. Maybe you can help? I’m sure Mandy could give you, uh, a _hand_.” He suddenly grins. “If you catch my drift.”

 

“You’re disgusting,” Montoya hisses.

 

Wayne hops onto the deck, smiling wildly as he sidles up to her. “I figure I’m saving their asses until this whole things dies down in a few weeks or so.” He smirks. “Appreciating them, too.”

 

Sven glances at The Brute. “Boss?”

 

The Brute gives Binocular Man and Felix a look, motioning with two fingers for them to cross over to Wayne’s yacht. Montoya’s lost track of the fifth man, but he could be sleeping down below.

 

The Brute turns to Wayne. “If you help us with the boy, I’ll start siphoning the gas.”

 

“Sure.” Without another glance at Montoya, Wayne follows the Brute until they come to the sacks of food. “Gosh—Zulu, Zekki, was it?—I really appreciate—” Wayne stops mid-sentence, staring at the bundle at his feet. “What the hell?”

 

He nudges it with his foot. The blanket falls from the corpse’s face.

 

Wayne pales, staring at a half-eaten skull, blood, brain, and flies oozing off bone.

 

“What—I—no—no—” Wayne goes green, hunches over and vomits to the side, gasping for breath and shaking out one lone exhale.

 

“As you can see,” The Brute intones, “We’ve had...a bit of trouble.”

 

“Christ,” Wayne moans, dry heaving.

 

Montoya clenches her jaw. She can’t stand here, uselessly watching Wayne fall apart and knowing that he’s next. She takes a step back, wanting to put as much distance between her and the reason for her guilt as possible.

 

She backs up, heart pounding in her ears, straight into Sven’s hard chest.

 

“Going somewhere?” Sven whispers.

 

She struggles, stopping only when the Brute shoves Wayne onto his knees by the body. Wayne cries out, trying to look away.

 

“Hush,” the Brute says, and covers Wayne’s head with one massive hand, his knuckles whitening as his fingers dig into the playboy’s skull.

 

Wayne winces, otherwise not making a sound as his head is pulled back and neck bared.

 

“Don’t touch him,” she snaps. “He’s done nothing to you. He’s harmless!”

 

The Brute nods. “Very well,” he says.

 

He lets go of Wayne, lifts his gun and shoots the last prisoner in line, then the next.

 

The sound echoes horrifically in her ears.

 

She can’t help but watch as Wayne stares in shock at the row of prisoners he seems to have just noticed are there. He blinks at the two new corpses, chunks of brain missing, then at the doctor, whose eyes are wet. Her friend is next, and as his eyes widen on her, she doesn’t see him. She doesn’t see anyone. She’s looking at _nothing_.

 

“He’s alive, for now,” the Brute says. “I had planned to spare him, anyway. He’ll be much more useful to us.”

 

“You’re a monster,” Montoya whispers, emotion pricking the backs of her eyes.

 

Only the doctor, sick child, and her friend are left. There is no way they can fight back, even if Wayne has some sense about him.

 

“You people,” Wayne hisses, glaring up at the Brute. “Disgust me.”

 

The Brute narrows his eyes and hauls Wayne up with one arm. The billionaire stumbles, yet somehow manages to stay on his own two feet.

 

The Brute inspects his face, a look that feels too familiar, even to her. She shivers.

 

“You’ve lost weight,” the Brute says calmly. Wayne’s brows furrow. “How would you like to change that?”

 

“I can’t say that I would,” Wayne says with a short laugh. “Not with your diet, anyway.”

 

Montoya isn’t sure she’s ever heard the billionaire so stalwart. Her heart lodges in her throat as the Brute replaces his gun and pulls out his knife, instead.

 

“You know what we do on this boat?” The Brute asks.

 

Wayne smiles humorlessly. “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

 

The Brute smiles. He brings the knife to Bruce’s face, allowing it to hover beside his eye. “We test people. We see what they can withstand. It’s quite the process. Entertaining, really.”

 

“I bet it is,” Wayne says unblinkingly. “Let me guess, I’m your next subject?”

 

The knife lowers, and the Brute pierces Wayne shallowly at the hollow of his neck. A strangled sound escapes Wayne’s throat, blood flowing with it down his pale skin, like tiny rivulets. The Brute lowers the knife again and carves a line down Wayne’s chest before the playboy can suck in another gasping breath.

 

Montoya winces at the sound of the tell-tale slice but Wayne merely blinks, hunching over as crimson stains his clothing. “Damn,” he huffs. “That was my last white shirt.” He straightens, bracing himself with an arm across his chest, his sleeve soaked with blood. “Guess I’ll have to go back to wearing all black,” he deadpans.

 

It is then Montoya knows there is something she’s missing about Wayne—and this courage that came out of nowhere. She just can’t put her finger on it.

 

The Brute chuckles, stroking Wayne’s cheek with the back of his hand. “You are still strong, and I see you’ve been having...fun,” the Brute murmurs, narrowing his eyes at the marks along the billionaire’s neck. “Interesting.”

 

“You know me,” Wayne says hoarsely. “I’m nothing if not irresponsible.”

 

“Hehe—” A haunting, knowing voice comes from behind them.

 

Montoya knows that laugh. She turns—they all turn—to stare at the lone figure wiping a bloody knife on his shirt.

 

“Shit,” Sven whispers. “That’s the Joker.”

 

The Joker starts to whistle.

 

Has the entire world gone mad?

 

The Brute tenses, slowly releasing Wayne from his deathhold. “Impossible.”

 

“Where are they?” Sven demands. “They went over to help Irene and Amanda.”

 

The Joker stops whistling and frowns. “Who? Irene and Amanda?” he asks, scratching his head with the knife. “There are no Irenes _or_ Amandas on this boat—and never were.” He turns to Wayne, pointing the knife at him. “Have you been lying again, Sweets?”

 

Wayne stand up to his full height, seemingly shaking himself of the playboy persona. An unexpected energy courses through him—Montoya feels it. She sees it and is horrified by it and the fact that he’s responding to the Joker's endearment.

 

He looms inhumanly, tolerant of his painful injury, of the dead body at his feet. Of the threat of slaughter.

 

“A bad habit I picked up,” Wayne says in a gravel-tight voice.

 

The Joker sends him a Cheshire grin. “Well, Bats, you really are turning over a new leaf.”

 

Shock falls over Montoya like a bucket of cold water.

 

Bats?

 

_Bats?_

 

She’s so confused—terrified by the both of them covered in blood—she doesn’t know where to begin.

 

Sven stares at Wayne, whose eyes glitter like diamonds in the night, his muscles coiling under a trail of fresh blood. “Fuck. You’re Batman?”

 

Muffled, desperate sounds come from the other woman and boy, as they attempt to move as far away from the men as they can. But their bound state prevents them from seeking safety. Montoya would do something to help, but she can hardly see beyond the train wreck she knows is coming.

 

The only thing that grounds her, keeps her mind steady, is the doctor. Leslie looks at Wayne and only Wayne, as if he’s her lifeline, her expression unreadable yet strangely and blessedly calm.

 

The Joker wipes his knife a final time, then tosses it into the air, catching it with ease. He studies Wayne for a long moment, the crimson stain spreading across his chest and dripping onto the deck, before cocking his head at the Brute. “You _really_ shouldn’t have done that,” he says, eyes narrow, cold and dark.

 

And with that, Montoya helplessly watches as all hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Inferred canibalism, descriptions of violence, minor character death.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear from you all—comments are always greatly appreciated. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going on vacation, starting tomorrow, sooooo the next update will most likely be in two weeks. Hopefully, this crazy chapter will tide you over until I post again! 
> 
> Thank you, michael_was_filled_with_self_loathing, for looking over the chapter for me!
> 
> Warnings in end notes! If you’re sensitive to triggers, please check them first before reading!

 

Jack strikes first, throwing his knife. It sinks into Sven’s thigh, and the guard screams, his finger slipping on the trigger. A stray shot fires into the deck, startling Bruce out of his daze.

 

His eyes snap up to see Zachariah pointing a gun straight at his heart. He blames the blood loss, the onset of pain in his chest, for his delayed reaction. He tries to make up for lost time and launches a kick at the larger man’s kneecaps before he fires. The bullet clips his cheek while he’s dodging it mid-air. It burns, searing hot and damning against his skin. There’s more heat. Another explosion.

 

He’s used to worse conditions and lands on his feet, gripping the railing to steady himself. Zachariah slams into the floor on his back, his size and gravity working against him. It’s almost too easy, Bruce thinks, but then a bullet whizzes by his ear—there’s a third man now, from below—as he’s catapulting towards the other side of the boat by a third explosion, one he’s sure they had not planned.

 

His ears roar—the blast forces him clear across the deck, thankfully clearing the women and child.

 

His shoulder takes the brunt as he hits the deck. He rolls over, ignoring the agonizing stretch across his chest, and springs onto his feet toward Zachariah. The third man abandons his gunfire, racing towards Jack.

 

Jack is fighting two—and Bruce. Bruce can only hope he can handle the one.

 

It takes him a moment to remember that the first explosion had been the small distraction they’d orchestrated to rock the boat, what Jack had thrown onto the side of the ship before they’d noticed he was there. He shakes his head, but the ringing in his ears intensifies. He has enough wherewithal to unsheath his knife as planned, tossing it. He regrets he doesn’t have another just as sharp.

 

The knife hits the deck and slides towards Montoya. He hardly catches a glimpse at her, but he sees enough. She stares at him with startled brown eyes, as if he’s a stranger. And he is. He is to all of them. Even Leslie. Especially Leslie. She won’t recognize what Batman has become.

 

He prays Montoya catches the weapon and uses it post haste, because although he can’t tell her what to do, it’s up to her to free the others and help them aboard the other yacht.

 

In his brief monologue, he’s off his game. He dances sideways, arm up to block a hit, but he’s too late. Too damn late.

 

Zachariah’s powerful fist clips his chin. Bruce’s head snaps back like a broken twig.

 

He grunts, sliding first across the deck, then slumping back onto it, hard. That’s the only mistake he’s going to make, he vows. But as Zachariah barrels towards him, he knows there’s no way he can match the other man’s brute strength, wounded and weakened by malnutrition as he is.

 

He reaches under his waistband and pulls out his one weapon—a handmade bomb built with methods he’d learned from Ra’s. It will knock them both to hell if he comes any closer.

 

“Holy fuck,” Montoya’s hiss comes from somewhere beside him.

 

Zachariah skids to a stop when he sees it, heaving a hearty laugh. “Suicide, Bruce Anthony?”

 

Zachariah’s familiarity unsettles him, but he won’t give the man the satisfaction of asking how the hell he knows his damn middle name. Maybe he stalks Wayne in the tabloids—or does business with Wayne Enterprises. His full name is on the plaque on the first floor, a fixture by the fountain.

 

“That depends on you,” Bruce says.

 

They stare each other down, the activity around them flourishing.

 

Bruce watches Jack from the corner of his eye, although he’s but a blur. He’s holding his own, but the third man is knife-to-knife with him, matching every single move.

 

Yet even if Jack slips up, if he tires like Bruce has, it won’t be for nothing.

 

The place where the prisoners had been sitting is nearly empty. A young child, a boy no more than five, maybe six, lags behind as Montoya helps Leslie to her feet. It bothers Bruce that the doctor needs assistance to get up in the first place. The other woman, Bruce notices, with an even guiltier conscience, heads for the boat on her own with her chin held high.

 

The boy’s blanket falls off of his head and shoulders, revealing a shock of long, black hair, the ends brushing his shoulders. Blue eyes, glazed with fever, peer at Bruce.

 

Bruce’s concern grows. The boy is younger than he’d first assumed, and as slender as a reed, indicating he’d been extremely small to begin with. Bruce has a vague notion to ration more goat’s milk for the boy than anyone else, but Jimmy and Babs need it, too.

 

He decides he can have most of his own share. If he’d survived on much less before, he can do so again.

 

The boy wavers on his feet, glancing warily between Zachariah and Bruce.

 

“Go on,” Bruce calls to him.

 

“I’ll not stop you—yet,” Zachariah tells the boy.

 

“Get into the boat,” Bruce urges at the same time.

 

Face flushing, the boy takes a breath and bravely nods, as if Bruce had just handed him a great responsibility.

 

And he supposes he has, asking him to trust another stranger. Another violent one.

 

As the boy follows the three women, Bruce shifts his gaze back to Zachariah. The shuffling and murmurs continue behind him, but he fixates on the bastard in front of him who looks amused by it all.

 

“Is everyone on the boat, detective?” Bruce asks after a few second pass, steadying his voice for their sake.

 

“Yes...” Montoya hesitates, adding, “Mr. Wayne.”

 

“Good.” Bruce hugs his chest with his free arm, drawing shallow, painful breaths. If he dies here, he’s saved at least three more lives. Not that it makes up for the killing he’s done in recent days, but there’s a good chance that Montoya and the others will survive and, if Joker does, too, make it back to the island with him. “Your destination...it’s preset in the GPS.”

 

“And you?”

 

”Take care of the others. Get them the hell out of here,” he says, appreciating yet ignoring the question.

 

“We’re not leaving without you, Bruce,” Leslie pleads, but there is a hope entrenched in those words he simply can’t return.

 

He briefly closes his eyes, steeling himself against a fresh and overwhelming sense of loss. “ _Now_ , I said. Put as much distance you can between the boy and this boat.”

 

“Fine then,” Montoya grits out. “Be a martyr, Wayne. As if I care.”

 

He wants to react at her obvious attempt to feign indifference—a small laugh catches in his chest—but his vision blurs more. He blinks quickly, several times, trying to clear the murky sight that is his enemy and hating that he has to do it in the first place.

 

It’s a show of weakness he can’t afford to reveal.

 

Zachariah’s mouth curves at the corners, his eyes dropping to his own handiwork, the blood-pulsing line engraved in Bruce’s chest. “How much blood have you lost?”

 

Bruce doesn’t look down, doesn’t think about the pain not only spreading throughout his chest, but his abdomen, too. The knife must have gone deeper than he thought. “Not as much as you’ll lose if you step any closer,” he says.

 

He rises with a grunt, one arm wrapped tightly around his middle, a useless attempt to staunch the flow of blood. It drips from his neck, mixing with the rivulets running down his chest.

 

The world around him spins like he’s on a twisted and jerking Ferris wheel that doesn’t know which way it wants to turn. He leans on one foot, then the other, regaining his balance. He _has_ lost blood, he thinks. A lot of it.

 

He should’ve worn his suit, even if it had hung on him.

 

He’ll need stitches.

 

He doesn’t have time for fucking stitches.

 

He’ll need a transfusion.

 

He won’t get something like that out here in the middle of nowhere.

 

It doesn’t matter. But this madman does. Bruce has to make sure Zachariah doesn’t live long enough to torture more people.

 

He has to kill.

 

_Again._

 

He thinks of the blood he has on his hands from before the island. And the past three days alone since they’d left the island.

 

This isn’t the only boat they’ve encountered. The only bloodthirsty men they’d fought. The only cannibals they’ve killed.

 

They’ve sunk two others ships, along with ten within this human trafficking system. Trafficking for food. Humans of any kind. Young. Old. The middle-aged. It appeared to have made no difference. There isn’t anything more disgusting than that, he thinks. Nothing.

 

At this point Bruce’s kills surpasses the Joker’s post-Gotham record.

 

“You won’t kill me,” Zachariah says.

 

Bruce’s mouth twists into a somber smile. “I’ve killed seven men the past two days alone. I’m not concerned about another—even mine, if it’s necessary to end you.”

 

“You are not afraid to die,” Zachariah observes.

 

Bruce cocks his head. “No, I’m not.”

 

“You should be.”

 

“I’ve already lived longer than I thought I would.”

 

“Ah, a death wish,” Zachariah says, nodding as if he’d known this about Bruce.

 

Bruce’s shoulders tense. “You seem to have one, too.”

 

“But it’s clear you haven’t thought this through. You wouldn’t be so hasty if you knew.”

 

“Hasty?” Bruce says with a mirthless laugh.

 

“You think you have nothing to live for.”

 

And Bruce doesn't, not really. Not anymore. “I know that you’re stalling,” he says. “But you don’t have time. I can’t hold this forever.”

 

Zachariah’s shoulders relax. “Fair enough.”

 

Bruce doesn’t miss the tactic, the engineered move, the way it counteracts his own readiness.

 

He’s trying to throw him off. Bruce tightens his hold around the bomb. “Let us go,” he demands.

 

“Or you’ll spare me?” Zachariah extends both his arms and raises them. “This is my destiny.”

 

“Moonlighting as a cannibal?” he asks.

 

Jack is suddenly there beside him, grounding Bruce with his presence.

 

“Cannibal?” Zachariah laughs. “I never was like these depraved men. This is merely a smokescreen. I’m sure you, of all people, would understand. Bruce Wayne. Playboy by day, vigilante by night.”

 

“What will it be? Death, then?”

 

Zachariah’s eyes slip to Jack. “Death is a strong sentence, Bruce, given who has been your companion these past few weeks.”

 

“The rules are different now.”

 

“They are always different,” Zachariah affirms. “For men like us.”

 

For men like us?

 

His heart lodges in his throat as he thinks—as he tries not to think—what that really means.

 

Zachariah’s smile gleams white. “For the initiated. And we are initiated, aren’t we, Bruce?”

 

Initiated?

 

Dread sinks its fingers deep into his chest. His gaze flickers across the other man’s face, which reflects a calmness and confidence he’s seen in few men.

 

Men in the mountains. Men who’ve dedicated their lives for something greater. Men like Ra’s.

 

No.

 

Not the League.

 

No.

 

_Not the League._

 

But the truth sets in, slowly, quickly—horrifically. Zachariah is like him. Trained in darkness. Familiar with shadows.

 

Here. Out here. After the infected.

 

_We ransacked Rome._

_We tried a new way. Economics._

 

Bruce tries to wrap his mind around it.

 

It’s not hard. Out of any cause he could come up with, this makes the most sense.

 

His own silence damns him.

 

“Oh, shit,” Jack breathes out into the silence.

 

Bruce wishes with every fiber of his being that he’d sent Jack on the boat, too. Where there is one in the shadows, there are a thousand more.

 

Zachariah’s eyes soften on Bruce. “Ah, yes, you cannot deny it. You feel it, don’t you?”

 

He feels it—his training—more than ever. More so on the Island than he’d ever felt it in Gotham. The island’s space filled him, much like Bhutan had, draining him as well as filling him. Showing him things he’d never known and revealing to him things he’d always known but in a new light, renewing his fervor for them.

 

He thinks he’d endured elective memory loss in the Himalayas, not just on the island. Perhaps it had been an effect of the blue flower Ra’s had loved to carry with him—and what he’d convinced Bruce to carry, too.

 

A thick, hard lump forms in Bruce’s throat. “I am not one of them. One of _you_ ,” he rasps.

 

He isn’t anymore. He can’t be. He won’t be, even though he’s murdered in cold blood.

 

“A member of the League you shall always remain.” Zachariah inches forward. “You know this is true. You live in the shadows, still, do you not? Have you ever wondered why?”

 

“Don’t,” Bruce warns. He raises his hand, the bomb along with it, stopping the other man.

 

Zachariah tsks. “It’s in your blood, Bruce. You cannot hide your training, even now.”

 

“The League was destroyed,” Bruce says.

 

“Merely...disbanded...for a time,” Zachariah says, his dark eyes narrowing. “Thanks to the Bat—Man. _You_.”

 

“You have no leader,” Bruce says. “Ra’s is dead.”

 

“You killed him.”

 

“I didn’t save him,” Bruce corrects.

 

“A technicality of which you’ve convinced yourself. And you think only Ra’s can lead us? You are badly mistaken.” He hums. “You all are.”

 

“This...the infected...was the League’s doing?”

 

“Of course. I’m surprised you hadn’t figured it out before now.”

 

“We’ve been surviving,” he says. “Helping G—” He forces the words down, clamping his mouth shut.

 

Zachariah notices, as he does everything. “Ah, you are helping someone. Friends, perhaps?”

 

“Why are you doing this?” Bruce growls, skirting the question. “Innocent people are terrorizing the world. Society, _destroyed_.”

 

“It is time for Gotham’s reckoning.”

 

Jack clears his throat. “I don’t mean to be rude—and I can’t complain about the world burning right now—I actually kinda like it—but don’t you think you, uh.” He coughs into his hand. “Might have miscalculated a little?”

 

“Earth’s destruction is not our mistake,” Zachariah says.

 

Bruce stares at him in disbelief. “But billions of undead are?”

 

“If need be. That is part of the message I am to tell you.”

 

“Message,” Bruce repeats. “From a dead man?”

 

“From our new leader,” Zachariah says.

 

“I take it getting caught was a part of your plan?” Jack asks.

 

“Of course,” Zachariah says. “People—you, Bruce—must die in order for the world to carry on as it should.”

 

“Why don’t you just kill me, then?”

 

“You don't fear death. You welcome it. Your punishment must be more severe.”

 

“More severe than this?” Bruce asks. He can’t think of anything else worse than the world disintegrating into a million festering pieces of itself.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Torture?

 

“Yes. But not of your body. A different kind.” Zachariah leans forward, pinning him with a look. “Of your soul. Tell me, Bruce. How is the island?”

 

Bruce’s breath hitches.

 

Zachariah straightens, eyes sweeping over him, a knowing smile on his face. “Ah, yes, you’ve been living there since you left Gotham.”

 

Bruce’s hand tightens around the grenade. “How did—-?”

 

“It is your home.”

 

He gives a humorless laugh. “Home. Is that what you’d call it? Is this the rest of the _message_ you have for me?”

 

“No—“ Zachariah shifts his gaze beyond him to the other yacht. “That, you must discover on your own,” he murmurs. His eyes snap back to Bruce, and he nods. “But be patient. It may take time.”

 

“Bruce,” Jack says.

 

“Not now.”

 

“Bruce,” Jack repeats.

 

“Not now, Jack,” he grits out.

 

Zachariah smiles. “Have you found it yet?”

 

“It?” Although Bruce is loathe to admit it, he can’t deny his curiosity is piqued.

 

“You must look for it, Bruce. It will make sense of everything. The voices you hear—”

 

Oh, God—the voice—what tortures him every damn day. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—” he denies.

 

“—the strange things that you see.” Zachariah says. “Ghosts, perhaps?”

 

Bruce’s stomach knots. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

 

“Not even a loved one? How can you deny a voice in your ear?”

 

Bruce’s hand falters, lowering by six inches and, with it, the bomb. “That voice.” He swallows down a question about ghosts. He can’t go there. He can’t. “What would you know about that?”

 

“Ignore him,” Jack mutters under his breath. “He’s just baiting you. Get on with it—kill him.”

 

“You kill me and you get nothing. No answers. Nothing. You’ll live as ignorantly as you have been all along.” Zachariah’s smile drops. “But I can help you. The island can help you.”

 

Bruce breathes harshly through his nostrils. The island has been helping him. He can see that now.

 

Zachariah nods. “It is difficult to accept, the responsibility it bestows upon a man of your worth. Give it time. Your relationship with it will develop. It will speak to you again, in different ways.”

 

Bruce shifts uneasily on his feet. “How did you…”

 

“Kill him,” Jack grits out.

 

But Bruce can’t. He can’t. He has to know. “What can you tell me about the island? How did you know we were there?”

 

“It drew you to itself, didn’t it?”

 

Bruce can’t deny he’d felt a pull. An unexplainable, inexplicable pull.

 

“I see it in your eyes that it has.” Zachariah’s eyes brighten. “It called Ra’s much in the same way.”

 

“Can’t you see?” Jack hovers by Bruce’s ear. “He’s merely playing you.”

 

But Bruce has to ask. He hesitates. “It calls...others?”

 

“Yes, but only men of your...nature,” Zachariah says. “And soon it will be your home...forever.”

 

“It’s no home.” But it can be, he thinks, if he finds a cave. Something to remind him of the Palisades.

 

Zachariah’s eyes look off into the distance. “Home, where I learned the truth about despair, as will you. Both home—and a prison.”

 

Bruce raises his arm, drawing Zachariah’s attention back on the bomb. “It’s not a prison. We’ve left, and we’ll do it again—”

 

“Are you certain? No matter. Soon you’ll discover its bars hold you there. You’ll not escape it for a second time. They might, like Ra’s, but not you.”

 

“The antidote,” Bruce says through clenched teeth. “There is one. There has to be. Ra’s—the League—would never plan something of this grand a scale without one.”

 

But Zachariah continues in his own way, on his own terms. “There's a reason why the island is the worst hell on earth... Hope. Men like you, Bruce, and Ducard, have ventured there over the centuries, looking up to the light and imagined climbing to freedom. So easy... So simple...And like men turning to sea water from uncontrollable thirst, many have died trying. There can be no true despair without hope.”

 

“Oh, cry me a river,” Joker mutters. “This is nonsense. He’s making this up, Bats. He won’t tell us anything.”

 

“No.” Bruce jerks away from him. He has to at least try. “The antidote—where is it?”

 

“There is none,” Zachariah says. “It is too late.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Bruce says.

 

“There is none.”

 

“Tell me where the antidote is,” Bruce demands, losing patience.

 

“There is no antidote—but a reset—something of the supernatural would do exactly what you want,” he says with a curving, taunting smile. “Wouldn’t it?”

 

“Tell me!” Bruce growls, desperation rising in his chest. “Ra’s would never do this without an antidote for himself, to protect the people closest to him.”

 

“And I am not Ra’s al Ghul.”

 

Bruce works his jaw. “You are not Zachariah, either, are you?”

 

“Who I am doesn’t matter. What we’ve done has changed...everything. We’ve terrorized Gotham, and the infected will feed off its people and poison their souls. You will go on living as an entire city tortures itself—the entire world—and when you have truly understood the depth of your failure, when you realize your new prison, your fate, we will have fulfilled Ra's al Ghul's destiny. We will have destroyed Gotham and then, when it is done and Gotham is ashes, _then_ you have my permission to die.”

 

“I will stop you,” Bruce vows.

 

Zachariah’s smile widens. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

 

Bruce starts the timer on the bomb, preparing to toss it over. “So be it.”

 

Zachariah’s smile morphs into a sinister grin. “It’s Miss Dawes, isn’t it? The voice you hear.”

 

Bruce’s breath hitches.

 

“You loved her,” the other man goes on to say. “It was his wife, for Ducard.”

 

He hadn’t allowed himself to think it was really her. But to hear it from someone else’s lips— “I—”

 

“He loved her, just as he loved you.”

 

For a moment, Bruce hears nothing above his own ragged breathing.

 

“And she was real,” Zachariah goes on to say. “She was as real to him in life as she was on the island. She knew about him, and even more about what was to come. Has Miss Dawes told _you_?”

 

“I’m...I’m not sure,” he says hoarsely.

 

Jack tugs at his arm. “Bruce, now.”

 

“The island kept her alive, for him,” Zachariah muses. “Like Miss Dawes is kept alive—for you.”

 

“That’s impossible,” Jack says.

 

But...is it?

 

“You’re not hearing things, Bruce,” Zachariah calls to him.

 

“Bullshit,” Jack hisses.

 

Bruce looks at him, then at Zachariah. “I—”

 

Zachariah’s eyes grow gentle. “If you leave, if you kill me, I cannot help you make sense of the island and what is happening to you there.”

 

Bruce sees his path narrowing until it’s but a sliver in the night, ignorance obscuring the rest of his future if he abandons the island. He makes a decision. “Wait,” he says, stepping forward. “I need to know.”

 

“About Miss Dawes? The antidote?” Zachariah prods. “Or... _Henri_?”

 

Bruce can’t believe how much his former lover’s name tears him apart inside. Had he loved him, even after his betrayal? He’d made himself believe he hadn’t, forced the loss into a darker corner of his mind.

 

But...maybe he’d been wrong.

 

Bruce swallows. “H-Henri.”

 

Jack stiffens next to him.

 

“You were his greatest student.” Zachariah’s eyes beckon Bruce to his wisdom. “He knew from the moment he first laid eyes on you in prison that you were the one.”

 

“The one...for what?” Jack sneers.

 

“To redeem us,” Zachariah breathes out, watching Bruce carefully. “To redeem him. Only you can reset our days of old.”

 

 _Henri_.

 

And Bruce thinks he could listen for as long as he has breath.

 

Zachariah smiles. “How long were you together? Two years?”

 

Bruce’s mouth goes dry. “Three,” he whispers.

 

Zachariah hums. “He liked to talk about your treks to the hot springs, the long days you spent together, sleeping under juniper and spruce, wrapped in each other’s arms, or listening to the cicada in the mountain meadow. To think what you could’ve become had you stayed by his side, had you not betrayed him.”

 

The accusation begins to pull him out of the mental haze that had entrenched him. “Me, betray him? He used me—”

 

“He had to make sure you understood. But he never lied to you, Bruce.”

 

Hadn’t he? “He never said....” Bruce stops, his brow creasing. “He—”

 

“He never lied,” Zachariah insists. “And despite your betrayal to the League, he’ll come for you.”

 

Bruce’s mind stutters to a halt.

 

Zachariah’s eyes bore into him, searching. “He will come for you, Bruce. Always.”

 

The memory of his mentor, unbidden, comes to life.

 

“He’s...alive,” Bruce says, growing numb.

 

“Immortality comes in different forms, Bruce.”

 

“He—Ra’s—is alive,” Bruce repeats, as if on autopilot.

 

“Dammit, Bats, he’s lying,” Jack hisses. “The crash—you told me no one could have survived it.”

 

He hadn’t thought so—but there’d been no body. What if…?

 

Bruce can’t leave this place, not now. He wants to know more. His heart—emptied by years of darkness and recent ruin—yearns for what it had lost.

 

He hangs onto Zachariah’s every word, his legs shaking beneath him.

 

They threaten to collapse and, when they do, he sinks to his knees, helpless to the weakness overtaking him.

 

Jack curses. He grips Bruce’s shoulders, keeping him from falling onto his face.

 

Zachariah stares solemnly at him, then says to Jack, “He needs to get back to the island. He’s lost too much blood.”

 

Jack laughs and lets go of Bruce, who braces himself with his arms against the deck. “You’re telling us to go to the island now, after nearly killing us?”

 

“He must return,” Zachariah says.

 

“So you can find and try to kill us again?” Jack sneers.

 

“Unlike him, I do not belong to the island,” Zachariah says.

 

“Wait,” Bruce says hoarsely, struggling to lift his head.

 

“It won’t be long now. Lambe samay tak rahana Ra’s al Ghul!” Zachariah tilts his head back, looking up at the sky. “Lambe samay ta—” He suddenly lurches back, gagging, his eyes wide, blood gushing from his neck like a fountain.

 

Jack’s knife is lodged square in his jugular. A precise, hateful, purposeful hit ruining Bruce’s best chance of learning the truth.

 

“Oops,” Joker says, not sounding sorry at all.

 

Bruce takes a figurative step back into his shocked fog. “No—” He chokes on a cry. “Dammit, Jack, Why did you—?”

 

Jack’s hold is bruising. “You know why—”

 

Bruce tears himself away from his grip and crawls forward on his knees, reaching for Zachariah with shaking hands. “I need to talk to him,” he says desperately, illogically, as the light in the man’s eyes disappears. “I have to ask... Dammit, Jack, _I needed him.”_

 

He finds Zachariah’s shoulders first, pressing his fingers against seizing muscles and fumbling around the knife as he tries to stop the bleeding.

 

He can’t tell the difference between Zachariah’s blood and his own, where the League’s wounds end and Joker’s begins, where the truth starts and the lies fade.

 

He thinks his heart is bleeding out, too.

 

“He’s dead, Bruce,” Jack says.

 

Bruce stares into Zachariah’s blank, unseeing eyes.

 

“No. No,” he stammers, his thoughts running rampant, tripping over what could be true and what is—and what he hopes is true. “He said—he—”

 

_He’d loved you._

 

“I heard what he said, pretty sure we all did, but I don’t think you actually caught on this time, hotshot. Bruce, we have to go,” Jack urges, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him up. “Now.”

 

“But I need him,” Bruce chokes out hoarsely.

 

Henri. He needs Henri.

 

“You don’t, Bruce,” Jack says through clenched teeth. “You don’t.”

 

But the draw of the unknown overwhelms him, and he strains against the arms pinning him. He gets nowhere. Jack’s too strong, too possessive.

 

He thinks he’s lost more blood in the struggle.

 

He’d lose more—willingly—if he could only talk to Zachariah again.

 

“Fuck this,” Jack says. “I’m not dying on this boat and neither are you.”

 

A warm but sticky hand hand slips over the back of his neck, fingers latching onto his tense muscles. As a warning. A caution. A comfort.

 

“We’re leaving, Bats,” Jack demands.

 

The signals in Brain brain that had been crossed without his knowledge begin firing properly again.

 

Bruce meets Jack’s stern gaze, yet the warmth of Jack’s hand melts his tightening muscles.

 

“ _Now_ ,” Jack says, eyes snapping violently at him.

 

His stomach twists with guilt—he’s angered Jack, who has every right to be upset with him, he thinks.

 

He’d asked about Henri—in front of Jack. He can’t imagine how much that had hurt him.

 

But the apology dies on his lips as he’s dragged to his feet, reluctant but obedient. Twisting his neck, he steals a glance back at Zachariah, who had taken too many of Bruce’s own secrets to his grave.

 

He’ll never know now. Never.

 

The deck swims in his vision, his world spinning. Jack curses, frantically pulling at him.

 

Bruce stumbles over his feet, realization slowly dawning that Jack’s shouting at him.

 

“Bruce! Your hand! Look at your hand!”

 

But he’s moving in slow-motion. Sluggish. Forgetting something, but he’s not sure what.

 

Jack laughs hysterically. “You’re gonna be the death of me, after all, Bats.”

 

Confused, Bruce looks around at the boat. It’s sinking. He looks down at his hand.

 

It’s a grenade, from Bhutan, not a bomb.

 

It still has a distinct, delayed trigger.

 

“Throw it!” Jack screams. “We have to jump!”

 

Bruce recalls initiating the sequence. Keeping it with him. The island, the water, misconstruing nearly everything in his sight.

 

He calculates they have seconds left—if they’re lucky.

 

_Learn to mind your surroundings, Bruce._

 

“Fuck.”

 

He throws the damn grenade.

 

__________

 

 

Montoya has a sixth sense she’d never told Gordon about.

 

She can spot someone who has a chip on their shoulder a mile away. She chalks it up to living with a mother bent on revenge against an absent husband her entire life. Her older siblings, who never quite got over their mother ignoring them because of said revenge. By the time Renee came along, holding a grudge was a way of life in their world but also something she’d vowed would never embitter her.

 

And this woman—who’d been tied up beside her—she has a damn boulder weighing her down, clear to the ocean floor.

 

“He told us to go,” the woman snaps, brushing past her. “So let’s get out of here.”

 

Montoya helps Dr. Thompkins to a seat, then turns to the child, who is watching the scene on the boat unfold.

 

“Are you alright?” she asks him.

 

He nods, still watching.

 

“We’ll find you something to eat soon, okay?”

 

He doesn’t answer, but his silence isn’t unusual. He’d been on the boat before Montoya and the other boys, captured that first week, she assumes.

 

She goes after Sandy, keeping one ear tuned to what Wayne and Zachariah are saying—something about Leagues, and Wayne and its crazy-assed leader being an item—and the other ear to what she hopes the woman will say. She barely sidesteps a trail of blood that continues on past the door, or what she assumes to be the bedroom and temporary resting place for two dead guards, courtesy of the Joker.

 

“We’re not leaving without Wayne,” Montoya says.

 

“The hell we are.”

 

“You think you’re going to survive this without him?” Montoya badgers her, following her up the ladder to the cockpit. “Without the Batman? When this League could still be out there?”

 

“It doesn’t matter—he could kill us anyway. So could the Joker.”

 

Montoya can’t say she disagrees with her about the Joker.

 

“We’re better off leaving them here,” the woman says.

 

“I’m not so sure. You look capable but the doctor isn’t as young as we are—and we have a child with us—”

 

“My point exactly,” the woman hisses.

 

Montoya frowns. “Is it the Joker?” The other woman says nothing. “The Bat?”

 

The woman’s mouth thins.

 

Huh. “What did he do?” she asks.

 

The woman shakes her head, her refusal to reply a confirmation that, whatever it is, it’s bad.

 

“He didn’t kill those cops—or Harvey Dent. Everyone has to know that. So, what did he do to y—” Montoya’s voice cuts off, hearing Wayne’s strangled cry. She looks back at the other yacht. Wayne is trying to stop Zachariah from dying—

 

—the Joker is screaming at Wayne.

 

—Wayne looks confused—and, the hell, does that seem wrong now—

 

—he throws something and before she can decipher what it is, the force from a blast rocks the boat, knocking both women sideways.

 

Montoya barely catches the wheel but falls anyway. She curses. “I’m going back to get them,” she says, picking herself up. “We have to.”

 

“He’s probably dead,” her companion mutters, blinking her eyes from her spot on the floor.

 

“And that’s okay with you?” Montoya asks with a prick of irritation. “We’re stronger in numbers. Besides, we can’t lose our human decency just because life is shit now.”

 

“Why not?” the woman asks as she stands, but her eyes widen, clouding with doubt. “They don’t care.”

 

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Montoya mutters. She turns the wheel, using the cameras to wade through the debris. “Look for them. They had time to jump.”

 

“I’ll steer,” the woman says through clenched teeth. “I’m not laying a finger to help them.”

 

“Fine,” Montoya gives her a sharp look. “What’s your name, by the way?”

 

“Sandy.”

 

“Be careful,” she cautions her. “We wouldn’t want to run them over, now, would we, Sandy?”

 

Sandy’s face is blank, but she nods. Trusting her to do the right thing, Montoya joins the doctor, who grips the railing of the boat like her life depends on it.

 

Leslie’s clothes sag on her, but Wayne looks more worse for wear.

 

The doctor glances sideways at her and shakes her head. “I can’t see them,” she says fearfully. “It’ll be dark soon. We need to find them.”

 

Montoya scans the debris. A head pops up, forty, maybe fifty feet away. The man gasps, barely holding his head above water..

 

“There—” she calls out to Sandy. “About forty-five degrees west.”

 

“I see him,” Sandy shouts back.

 

The boat turns. The Joker is already making his way over.

 

Wondering if her life is a surreal caricature of her worst nightmare, Montoya gives him a hand into the boat. He looks up at her, water streaming down his face and into his eyes. “Bats?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

He curses, bent over, his hands on knees as he catches his breath. “We have to keep looking.” He shivers. He huffs a breath and straightens, eyes frantically searching the water. “Any sign?”

 

“No, not yet,” Leslies says, her voice quiet as she watches him.

 

He wipes his face with his wet, bloodied sleeve, only adding another smear on his face. “I’ll look on the other side of the boat.”

 

Montoya grabs his arm. “Wait. There.” She points to their left.

 

Wayne’s floating, face-down.

 

Joker’s eyes teem with desperation. “Bats,” he says, voice breaking. “Nononono.”

 

He hops onto the side of the boat, preparing to jump.

 

“Let us get closer,” she says.

 

“No time. Sandy’s driving too slow.” He dives before she can convince him otherwise.

 

The boat Rock, inches from bashing against the Joker’s leg. Montoya glares up in Sandy’s direction. “Watch it,” she yells.

 

Sandy’s gaze falls on Wayne as the Joker grabs him by the shirt and turns him over on his back. The Joker cradles Wayne’s head against his shoulder and swims backward.

 

Sandy’s eyes fill with disgust. “I’m not giving him CPR.”

 

Montoya wants to shake some sense into her. They’re alive only because of Wayne.

 

“I assume you know CPR, Detective, and are willing to administer it to the man who just saved your life?” Leslie says coolly, ignoring Sandy’s scowl.

 

Montoya nods. “Of course.”

 

“He’s bleeding out too much. Wrap his chest before starting compressions. I’ll find a first aid kit,” Leslie says, voice laced with the fatigue that comes with the constant fear of being eaten. Montoya doesn’t think the doctor has slept in two days, just like her. “Alfred keeps one on the boat.”

 

Sandy blinks. “Wait, this is really Wayne’s boat?”

 

Leslie nods, moving unsteadily for the bedroom. “One of them.”

 

“Seriously?” Sandy looks, for lack of a better word, _pissed_. “He never said he had a boat.”

 

Things begin to click in Montoya’s head. “You were with them. Before you were captured.”

 

“Yes,” she says, jaw clenching.

 

“What happened?”

 

Sandy’s expression closes. She averts her eyes, face flushed. “Help them onto the boat. I don’t think we should wait around here any longer than we have to.”

 

Montoya lets it go. Although she thinks this is a more serious issue than the other woman’s letting on, she doesn’t have time for guessing games. “Pull up beside them.”

 

The Joker looks like a wild, wet dog, by the time Wayne is slumped beside him on the deck below. “He’s not breathing,” he says, his voice pitching into a whine. “He’s not, he’s not, Batsbatsbats….”

 

He lifts one of Wayne’s hands, inspecting his blue fingertips and pressing his hand to his cheek. He blinks, gaze falling on the billionaire's still, gray face and even bluer lips. “He’s—Bruce is—”

 

 _Dead_.

 

The Joker’s hand shakes, his entire being overwhelmed by shock.

 

She doesn’t blame him. Wayne, who she remembers to be a man of action, strong, valiant but also violent, is too still. The telltale splatter across his flesh is bright and startling, his upper torso bathed in crimson despite the dip into the ocean.

 

“Joker, listen to me,” she breathes out, hoping to urge him to action. She falls onto her knees beside them. They need to stop the bleeding, but they have no time to waste. “He’s a freaking mess. But there’s a chance.”

 

The Joker continues to stare at Wayne, dazed.

 

“Joker,” she snaps. “Start chest compressions.”

 

He startles out of it. “No,” he growls, shooting her a murderous look, sliding over to kneel beside Wayne’s head. “ _You_ do that.”

 

She thinks she’s missing something, but backs off. “Fine,” she mutters, and after swallowing her nausea—Wayne is a freaking corpse—she begins the compressions, one every two seconds, keeping her eyes averted. All she can think about is the impending liplock.

 

She’s a seasoned cop of fourteen years, but she’s not sure she can watch a murdering psychopath give Batman mouth-to-mouth.

 

“Comeoncomeoncomeon,” Joker pleads to a lifeless Wayne. “Don’t die on me, Bats.”

 

He already has, but she knows better than to make an ignorant remark like that to a psychopath. “Again,” Montoya orders, stopping compressions.

 

Joker breathes into Wayne’s mouth twice, finding the crook of the billionaire's arm when he’s done and squeezing it with a trembling hand.

 

“Wayne, you bastard,” Montoya says, hands clasped on his chest. “You’re stronger than this.”

 

And she has too many questions for him. Too many expectations. To have someone else willing to lead—and smart enough to do so—would be a relief.

 

The Joker’s eyes flicker over the drowned man as she begins another round of compressions. “You don’t get to do this,” he hisses to Wayne. “We have a deal.”

 

She wonders for thirty compressions what he means by that. She stops, pulling her hands away from Wayne’s mangled chest, and nods at the Joker. He tilts Wayne’s chin up for a third time, pinches his nose, and breathes into his mouth. Montoya is intrigued—it looks like the Joker actually knows what he’s doing.

 

They start another round, but Wayne begins to cough. Relieved, Montoya sits back on her heels, but keeps one hand pressing on the wound to help stop the flow of blood. The Joker smiles and helps Bruce onto his side, just in time. Still applying pressure to the wound, Montoya moves with them, finding herself plastered to the back of the billionaire as Wayne gags. He spews a morbid amount of water, blood, and bile onto the deck.

 

 _Blood_.

 

Montoya knows enough about first aid to know that isn’t a good sign. His confusion and lethargy, another.

 

Leslie blanches, reaching them just as Wayne’s eyes flutter open. “Bruce,” she cries.

 

He blinks at the sound of his name, but his unfocused eyes fall on the Joker, who helps him onto his back.

 

The drowned man shivers, soundlessly working his jaw. He doesn’t move otherwise, his body and mind spent.

 

“We have to stop the bleeding,” Leslie rushes out, setting aside the blankets, bandages, and first aid in her arms. “He’ll need stitches. I need you to listen very carefully.” She turns to the Joker. “Is Alfred with you? I didn’t see him, but I thought maybe…”

 

He shakes his head. “No.”

 

Leslie pales more. “Then you.” She glances sharply at him. “You must keep him calm.”

 

Calm? Like the Joker—a psychopath—can keep anyone grounded.

 

Montoya’s shock must show on her face, for the Joker sneers at them both. “Lady,” he says. “I was born to tame the Bat.”

 

Wayne utters a broken sound—a keening none of them can decipher. “S—S-S-Sa-dy—“

 

“Bats?” Joker asks, bending down to hear him as if it’s his last confession.

 

Wayne only moans, his eyes fluttering shut and lifeless against his ashen skin. He sputters out another cough, lips marred by fresh specks of blood.

 

Leslie takes Wayne’s hand, her eyes startling wide. “He’s like ice,” she exclaims.

 

“He always is,” Jack says, snatching Wayne’s hand from her. “It’s sort of his...thing.”

 

Leslie frowns. “He’s always cold?”

 

“What do you mean?” Montoya asks.

 

The Joker shrugs. “During the day, and especially at night—he’s a human popsicle. I should know. He’s the little spoon.” He pauses. “Usually.”

 

Montoya doesn’t want to think about the implications of that single statement—but it’s impossible not to. “Oh, my God.”

 

The Joker—and Bruce Wayne? Are they…?

 

Does that mean…?

 

She’s not sure if she should be disgusted, or comforted that the two craziest people on the planet had found each other—leaving the rest of them alone.

 

The Joker snorts. “At ease, detective. We share body heat. It’s what you do when you’re trying to survive on a deserted island that’s inhabited by ghosts,” he says. “And we didn’t have much of a choice on this ship the past few days, either. It hasn’t exactly been a, uh, honeymoon in the dream suite trying to find you. We slept on deck after the fights.”

 

Leslie presses the back of her hand against Bruce’s forehead, who stirs, restlessly, then peels back his eyelids. His pupils are enlarged. She narrows her eyes at the Joker. “How much has he eaten?”

 

The Joker looks uncomfortable. “You mean the meager hundred calories he vomited not too long ago?”

 

Remembering the stomach acid and blood mixed in with that, Montoya grimaces.

 

“Nothing for at least a day,” the Joker says. “He wanted to save most of his rations for, uh, all of you fine people.”

 

Leslie’s mouth tightens. “He’s going into shock—and this steady starvation isn’t helping matters. He’s lost fifteen pounds, maybe more. He was already down in weight the last time I saw him at the clinic, a month ago.”

 

“He lost fifteen pounds in three weeks?” Montoya asks.

 

The Joker’s eyes widen, but he nods.

 

“How is that even possible?”

 

It doesn’t seem feasible for anyone to have lost that much weight since the world had crumpled, but maybe it’s their island. Or Wayne’s new life with the Joker out in the middle of nowhere, his stress level skyrocketing.

 

Montoya isn’t sure she wants to visit this place, this island, but it seems as if it’s the only place they can go, especially if Wayne and Joker have other supplies there.

 

The doctor sighs. “We have to work quickly. He’s lost far too much blood. Find another blanket, Jack—”

 

Joker sucks in a breath, daring a look at the doctor. He looks uncertain, even wary, but not dangerous like Montoya expects him to be.

 

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Leslie prods gently, astonishingly kind to the psychopath.

 

He hesitates, then nods, his scarred mouth twisting into a wry smile. “I should have never told him what it was, but he...I…the damn _island_...”

 

Leslie nods. “He has that effect on people. The blanket,” she reminds him. “And dry clothes for him to change into. Be quick about it.” She pauses, mouth tight. “Watch out for the dead men. I tripped over a dismembered hand.”

 

“Oh, um, sorry?” he says, slowly pulling his hand away from where it had been touching Wayne. “I got carried away when one of them had the audacity to try to shoot me. But what’s two dead bodies amongst friends? I’ll get the blanket and clothes.”

 

He jumps to his feet and takes off for the bedroom before Montoya can dwell on his odd yet compliant response, or Leslie’s even odder request that seemed to have given the Joker something to do. But he had shown signs of anxiety regarding Wayne’s condition.

 

Friends? And an apology? “That’s weird,” Montoya mutters, watching his back.

 

“Everything is strange now, I’m afraid.” Leslie starts to suture Wayne’s chest. “Elevate his legs, please.”

 

“Right.” Montoya removes her boots and jacket, tucking them under Wayne’s knees.

 

Leslie purses her lips. “And I need to know if that woman—”

 

“Sandy?” Montoya says.

 

Leslie nods, sparing her a glance. “Could she cause him stress? Provoke him?”

 

“Yes,” she says honestly. “I think he did something that warrants her anger.”

 

“Then keep her the hell away from Bruce. He can’t handle it in his condition.”

 

“It’s that bad?”

 

“Besides the fact he internalizes everything and takes every burden upon himself?” Leslie pulls back Wayne’s shirt to reveal a gruesome patch of red and purple spreading at and below his ribs. “Yes.”

 

Montoya winces. “Ouch.”

 

“He’s in pain, yes.” Leslie touches the area gently, following its curved path to the other side, on his back. “He’s hemorrhaging. I think this is an older injury. Possibly yesterday but most likely before—and if it took them three days to find us, that means they ran into trouble.”

 

“You’re sure you’re a doctor, not a detective?”

 

Leslie stares down at Wayne, who had passed out, his aristocratic, handsome features finer, darker, and vulnerable, now that he was unmasked. “I know Bruce. I know what he does. How he pushes himself. The lengths he goes to, to do what is right. I’ve sutured his wounds, patched him up when Alfred was two hands deep in his blood. And I’m pretty sure, by the looks of things, that this man has been killing himself, keeping the Joker— _Jack_ —and maybe someone else—alive. Until I determine where the damage is, I can’t risk opening him up. He’s weak. He’s lost too much blood. I’ll have to find another way to try to stop the internal bleeding.”

 

Which is unlikely. More like impossible. “In other words—” But she can’t complete the thought.

 

And the boy—how had she forgotten about the boy?—he’s beside them, dressed from head to toe in black, small but standing as tall as can be, eyes more soulful beyond his years in their unwavering attention on Wayne. “He is a warrior, like they said. Injured badly,” he states with grave articulation. “He needs to return to the island.”

 

Montoya frowns. A warrior? When had they—those flesh-eating monsters—told the kid that?

 

Leslie continues to suture Wayne’s wound, her expression stricken. “Y-yes, little man. He’s on his last reserves.”

 

No, Leslie isn’t the detective. Montoya is. And that’s how she determines Leslie isn’t telling the truth but shielding the worst of it from their smallest passenger and maybe from her, and Jack, too.

 

Wayne isn’t merely on his last reserves.

 

He’s dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Reviews feed my muse—comments are always appreciated. :)
> 
> Just a little reminder—Sandy was one of messageredated’s OCs in Teeth in the Grass. I’m treating her as their (a) canon character in this story. ;)
> 
> Warnings: minor character death/inferred major character death/traumatic medical situation


	7. Chapter 7

 

The next time Bruce opens his eyes, his world is not the oppressive gray he expects, nor is it smattered with his own blood.

  
It’s beautiful.

  
Clouds slide across a blue sky, and sunlight he hasn’t seen since before the days of the infected hits his eyes. Struck by the light filtering through shifting clouds, he doesn’t realize he’s walking along the beach, leaving the ocean behind for the warm sand, until he sees her.

  
She stands no more than ten yards away, the wind lifting the hem of her long white gown, then ebbing, letting the fabric dance around her bare ankles.

  
He’d imagined her fear before she’d died, held in his hand the ashes. Maybe hers.

  
But she looks as human as anyone else. Her eyes are calm, complexion spotless. There isn’t a mar on her face, not a single scar on her skin. She’s whole. Free. But alive?

  
That’s a different story.

  
“Rachel?” he whispers, afraid that if he acknowledges her, she’ll disappear.

  
“Hello, Bruce,” she says, her smile going sideways but as gentle as he remembers it to be. “It’s been a long time.”

  
“What are you…” He stops and looks down at his feet. They’re covered with sand—not a drop of crimson. “Where are we?”

  
“You don’t know?”

  
He glances around, relying on instinct, as he always does. This place—it’s familiar—but not.

  
He shakes his head. “No.”

  
“This is your island.”

  
It can’t be. “This isn’t…” Dark. Damning. Yet she seems so sure.

  
Having second thoughts, he twists his head around. He sees nothing that makes him believe it’s the same island. The trees are bright with color, the sun warm on his neck. There are no signs of other survivors, not a single trace of the Gordons.

  
Or Jack.

  
“They’re not here,” he explains, unable to explain the twist in his heart when he doesn’t see him.

  
“Who? The Gordons?”

  
“This can’t be the island,” he says, somewhat exasperated that she’s not agreeing with the obvious.

  
The island doesn’t pull him to it. There’s nothing to hold him here, except for her. It’s...

  
He stops again, listening, growing cold.

  
“It’s what, Bruce?”

  
He looks sharply at her. “You read my mind. Twice.”

  
“Of course I did.”

  
“You’re a ghost.”

  
“You’re my best friend,” she says, yet not denying it. “I know you, Bruce.”

  
“Then why…” He steps forward, heart in his throat, a lump he could not swallow away. “Why have you been torturing me?”

  
Her smile twists. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  
“I feel you.”

  
Her smile falters. “How?”

  
He raises a hand to his heart. “Here,” he says hoarsely. He hesitates, then puts to his head. “And here.”

  
“You noticed.”

  
He nods, suddenly—illogically—frightened by her presence.

  
She walks over to him, gliding over the sand, yet he sees each step she takes. He can hardly breathe as she reaches up to touch his face. He closes his eyes, relishes her nearness.

  
“You’re here,” he says, voice cracking.

  
“Look at you,” she murmurs. “Skin and bones, not taking care of yourself.”

  
“Haven’t you heard?” He laughs hollowly. “The world ended.”

  
“What a horrid thing for you to go through. Anyone. No man can take this much.” Her fingers linger at his jaw. “Except—maybe you.”

  
He flinches. “This isn’t real.”

  
Her eyes fill with hurt. “It is, Bruce.”

  
“No,” he says. “You’re not. You’re a ghost. I’m...I’m dying. Or dead.” He grimaces, realizing his chest is laced with pain, the ache spreading from his abdomen. He places his hand on his heart, clawing at it briefly before forcing himself to unclench his fingers. “Am I?”

  
“No, not yet.” She approaches him, but he steps back, lifting both of his hands in supplication.

  
“Please.” He takes a second step back. “Just…stay there.”

 

“Wait, Bruce, we need to talk—”

 

He shakes his head. “I can’t...I...”

  
Her expression falls. “You’re afraid of me.”

  
He can’t explain his sudden urge to flee from her. He falls silent, seeing how much his rejection hurts her. “Give me a moment?”

  
“I won’t touch you,” she promises. “Is that okay? Can we just talk? We have time for that.”

  
He snorts despite himself. “Talk?” With a ghost? “Is that…” He laughs shakily, waving a hand in the air. “Is that what you do around here?”

  
“I know you have questions. I’d like to answer them—”

  
His hand falls limply to his side. “But you can’t,” he interrupts. “Can you?”

  
Her bright eyes give him hope. “Ask me one.”

  
“Just one?” It won’t be enough, but it will have to do.

  
She nods.

  
His heart pounds in his ears, anxiety swelling in his chest, but he knows what he has to ask. The answer will either set him free—or damn him to more turmoil. “Are you,” he rasps, words catching in his throat, “my imagination? Am I crazy? Are you just in my head? My dreams?”

  
She smiles “That’s four questions, Bruce. I may be dead—but you’re still as sane—or as insane, I should say—as ever.”

  
Tears prick the backs of his eyes. “Oh, God.”

  
“Look at me, Bruce.”

  
Her voice guides him, his eyes widening on her in disbelief.

  
“I’m as real as you are, just...in a different form. I can’t talk to you like the detective does or the doctor.” She stares straight into his eyes. “Or Jack.”

  
Jack? She’s seen...the Joker? “What do you mean?’

  
“I’ve seen him with you,” she says. “And you with him—briefly. I may be a ghost—but I’m no peeping Tom.”

  
His knees weaken, threatening to buckle under him. If she’s real, if she’s not a ghost, he’s really talking to her after she died. After she blew up to pieces. She’s part of the island now, he knows this deep down somewhere. And she...she’s seen him with...with.

  
It probably sickens her.

  
He closes his eyes, a broken and breathless sob escaping. “No.”

  
“Bruce,” she whispers.

  
He groans, putting his face in his hands. “This cannot be real. Let this not be real.”

  
“Bruce, I’m not mad. Nothing looks the same from this side of things, trust me.”

  
He doesn’t hear her. He falls to his knees, his guilt too much, feeling as if his heart is being wrenched from his chest. “Rachel, I—I —I—he—and I—-“

  
He can’t stomach the thought of confessing what they’d done, but he can’t deny he’d liked it. That—oh, God—he’d do it again.

  
“You don’t have to tell me. Bruce, you don’t—”

  
But he has to. He has to confess. He has to confess to someone, can’t she see that? He has to explain, although he knows there isn’t any excuse for his indiscretions. “I—he—” He feels sick. “He understands...he kissed _me_ , Rachel…”

  
And he’d kissed _him_. Her murderer.

_And liked it._

  
And in doing so betrayed her, Gordon, Gotham—all that he’d once lived for.

  
He immediately vomits into the sand. “Oh, God.”

He doesn’t even believe in God.

He doesn’t believe in himself.

He doesn’t believe in ghosts.

He doesn’t.

_He doesn’t._

  
As he heaves another time, falling victim to a fresh wave of anxiety, a hand gently presses against his shoulder. “Bruce.”

  
“I’m losing it. Alfred always warned me,” he whispers. “And here, it happened. I’m really—finally—”

  
“No,” she says quickly. “No, you’re hurt—this isn’t your fault. None of it is.”

  
He leans forward while on his hands and knees, until his forehead touches the sand. “No? I let him—manipulate—let him live—on this island—”

  
“There was nothing else you could’ve done.”

  
“I didn’t have to save him,” he whispers, clawing into the sand with his hands.

  
“Yes, you did. You could do nothing else. It’s not in you to turn people away.”

  
He turns his head, looks up at her. Something wet trails down his cheek. “I wasn’t able to save you.”

  
“I know.”

  
“I loved you.” His heart shatters inside. “I still love you.”

  
But in a different way.

  
“I know that, too.” The color fades from her face, her body flickering like a light switched off, then on again.

  
He wipes the tears from his face. “What’s happening?”

  
“I can’t stay like this for very long. It takes too much energy. The island, it doesn’t—” She cuts off abruptly.

  
He stumbles to his feet. “What do you mean?”

  
She shakes her head, her form glowing around the edges. “I can’t say. I’m sorry, for many things, including the letter.”

  
He takes her hand, rubbing a thumb across her translucent skin. “Letter?”

  
“I gave Alfred a letter, explaining…” She stops again.

  
“What are you talking about?”

  
“You didn’t get it, did you?” Her voice sounds far away.

  
He squeezes her wrist. “Don’t go.”

  
She smiles sadly. “I can’t stay. I already bargained with them. The others have, too.”

  
A shiver inches its way down his spine. “Them?”

  
“I’ll find another way to talk with you. I promise.”

  
“Tell me.” His fingers tighten more around her wrist bone. “Who?”

  
“You know.”

  
“The League?”

  
“The Island—I can’t say, Bruce. I—I have to go. I can’t keep you here with me, not like this.” She tugs at his hold, breaking free. “Don’t lose your courage, Bruce.”

  
“My humanity, you mean?” He’d lost it weeks ago—or years. Maybe the first time he ever donned the mask of the Bat. “It’s too late for that.”

  
Her eyes teem with pity. “I’m sorry for what I said in that letter. I never should have said those things.”

  
“It doesn’t matter. There was no letter.” He can’t let her go. “Please, I need to see you.”

  
“And you will.”

  
“How? In my dreams?”

  
“I’ll find you—one of us will—and you’ll know.”

  
“Wait! One of—” A wave of pain cuts him off. He sinks to his knees, what feels like a raging fire spreading across his chest and stealing his breath away. His entire body trembles. He gasps, wrapping an arm loosely around his stomach. “Wh-what’s happening...t-to me?”

  
She fades, the light around her disappearing. “Stay close to Jack. You don’t have much time—I thought you had more. He needs you.”

  
“Jack?”

  
“No, someone else.” He can hardly hear her when she adds, “Stay strong, Bruce. I’ll try to get you to the island more quickly.”

  
“No!” He reaches out to her, but her form morphs into a flowing vapor. “No—stay—Rachel!”

  
Her face is a distorted cloud, her eyes now holes as she looks at him one more time.

  
Before he can speak, all goes dark.

 

  
____________

 

 

  
After six hours of sailing—and no island in sight—Montoya isn’t sure Sandy wants Wayne to survive. “Any chance of getting there any faster?”

  
Sandy tosses her head, glaring out across the ocean. “I said we’ll get there before the sun sets.”

  
The sun has already lowered along the horizon. “You’re running out of time.”

  
Sandy scowls. “This GPS system—it’s not working as well as it should.”

  
“What do you mean?”

  
“While you’ve been playing nursemaid,” Sandy scoffs, “I’ve been making sure we don’t run into these other islands that are coming out of nowhere.”

  
Montoya frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  
She hasn’t noticed any other landforms along the way. Then, again, she’s been keeping and eye on the boy and the Joker.

  
Sandy laughs. “Does anything about the world now make sense?”

  
She has a point. “Fine, but speed it up if you can. The boy is sleeping, but I need to check on Wayne. The doctor, too.”

  
Sandy’s scorn dropped, a hint of compassion bleeding through. “She doesn’t look so good. Hardly well enough to help herself, let alone Wayne,” Sandy says, clenching the wheel. “Not that I care what happens to him,” she adds.

  
“Yeah, you made that pretty clear,” Montoya mutters. “Feel like explaining why?”

  
The other woman looks away. “Not particularly.”

  
“I’ll be back,” Montoya says after a moment.

  
She walks away, wishing she was at the wheel, instead. But although she doesn’t believe in the mumbo jumbo about the island, that it will somehow “save” Wayne, she won’t antagonize a certain psychopath. She’s not sure Sandy can keep her mouth shut about her dislike for Wayne, thus putting herself and others in danger. If Sandy remains at the helm, at least Montoya can keep an eye on things. But instinct tells her to be on her guard around the other woman—something isn’t right.

  
“We should have been there by now,” Montoya tells Leslie, keeping her voice low. “I think she’s stalling.”

  
The Joker fell asleep against his will an hour ago, a victim to whatever he and Wayne had been through that had worn them down, until they were ghosts of themselves. It wasn’t like the Joker could afford to lose any weight to begin with. Now his ribs jutted out through his shirt, not to mention how thin and gaunt the Bat looked compared to his once-suited self. Wayne appears to be the worst off of the two...but they had all lost something, hadn’t they?

  
Montoya may no longer have colleagues, her job, or her girlfriend, but she thanks her lucky stars that the psychopath is sleeping soundly, nestled between the side of the boat and Wayne’s right shoulder, the Bat’s good side, like a limpet. With the Joker exhausted, and out of her way for a short time, she can think clearly. They—she—needs a plan.

  
She can’t depend on Wayne, although he’s held onto life longer than she’d expected him to.

  
The Bat. She can’t believe it is actually him, once invincible, now human. Stranger still is how close Wayne and the psychopath seem to be. Even if the Joker’s clinginess is all an illusion, a distraction intended to catch them off guard, it’s a damn good one.

  
“Yes, I agree. Something isn’t right,” Leslie says as she wipes the vigilante's persistent, sweaty brow with a damp cloth. She frowns, looks up at Montoya. “But, other than physically pulling her away from the wheel, what can we do?”

  
“I’ll think of something. She has to sleep sometime.”

  
“So do you.”

  
She can’t afford to. “I can get by…”

  
“We do when we must,” Leslie murmurs.

  
Montoya considers the Dr. Thompson's admirable endeavor—the clinic on Crime Alley—and her lifelong dedication to her profession. Leslie has to be in her late sixties. But, after weeks of malnutrition and stress, she looks to be at least eighty, moving as an aged woman, bones riddled with arthritis and other injuries she’d sustained while captured.

  
She’s sure the doctor could have endured this trauma at one time. Now she isn’t even sure Leslie can burn the candle at both ends while her own health degrades.

  
“How is he?” Montoya studies her face, the deep creases along her forehead, the tension at her mouth that wasn’t there an hour ago.

  
“Why don’t you ask him?” Leslie says softly.

  
“Rachel,” Wayne mumbles.

  
Montoya looks down. Wayne stares up at her, his heavily-lidded eyes laced with pain.

  
“I’ve been called many things—a dead woman is a first,” Montoya says. “You picked a hell of a time to take a nap, Sleeping Beauty.”

  
Wayne breathes shallowly, working his mouth until his tongue barely flecks his lips, which are cracked, dry as dust and blue. Not a good sign.

  
“Bruce?” Leslie asks. “Do you think you can manage a few sips of water?”

  
Defiance flashes across his face before his lashes flutter, his eyes closing shut.

  
Montoya lifts a brow. “I think that’s a no.”

  
“Hogwash,” Leslie mutters. “Hand me the glass of water, please. Quickly.”

  
Montoya reaches over and gives it to her. Leslie lifts Wayne’s neck with a show of surprising strength and urges him to drink from it. He manages just two sips before turning his head, refusing the rest, at least half of the water slipping down his pale chin.

  
Leslie keeps the glass at his mouth, her expression firm. “More.”

  
His face twists into a grimace, his skin turning a sickly gray.

  
“Wayne, I hate to tell you this,” Montoya says, “but I think your modeling days are over. You look like shit.”

  
Leslies give her a sharp look before saying to Bruce, “You need this entire glass, and more.” His jaw firms. “Doctor’s orders,” she scolds him. “You’ve always listened to me before—don’t fail me now.”

  
Somehow, that gets through to him. He lets her slip the glass between his lips, allowing her to tip his head back. He swallows what doesn’t go down his chin, but Montoya can see just how much that simple effort pains him.

  
After a few more sips, Wayne clamps his mouth shut and turns his head away.

  
“Stubborn man.” Leslie sighs and sets the glass beside them. “How are you feeling?”

  
“Been...better.”

  
“Bruce Wayne, admitting he’s human,” Leslie says, lips quirking at the corners. ”If only Alfred could hear.”

  
His eyes flicker with another emotion Montoya can’t quite decipher. It irks her, and even Leslie grows quiet.

  
“What aren’t you telling me, hmm?” The doctor tugs his shirt up, inspecting his abdomen. The widening, purple bruise is hard to miss, the swelling and misshapen appearance of his stomach grotesque and a new appendage, as if out of a horror film.

  
Wayne coughs. Bright red spots fleck his sunken cheeks, mar his well-chiseled jaw, coating his lips like fresh, wet paint.

  
He looks like a caricature of himself, the Bat.

  
“Jesus,” Montoya whispers.

  
Leslie’s expression breaks. “I swear I just examined him not an hour ago.”

  
“This—none of this—is your fault,” she reminds her. “These things happen out here.”

  
Leslies blinks several times, her control clearly stretched thin. She takes a deep breath and turns to Wayne. “Pain, on a scale from one to ten.”

  
Bruce closes his eyes and exhales, slowly, a rattle in his chest. “S-six.”

  
Frowning, Leslie presses against the center of his wound, gently, as if to ascertain the damage.

  
Wayne gives a muffled cry, face twisted in pain and sweat.

  
Leslie lifts her hand, eyes serious. “He needs more pain medication,” she explains. “But I gave him the last of what was in that kit hours ago. He’s awake only because it wore off.”

  
“I’ll find some. I saw a pile of bags in the bedroom. Maybe there’s some in there.”

  
“Wait,” Leslie says. Wayne gasps, his body oddly torquing. “Help me keep him still.”

  
Montoya holds him down along his shoulders. He’s strong but too weak from the blood loss to give up a fight. He succumbs, limp under her fingers and wheezing for breath.

  
“A nine, then,” Leslie corrects him.

  
A distant light fills Wayne’s eyes. “D-dying?”

  
“Nonsense. You’re the Batman, remember? You can’t.”

  
“Bad...liar.”

  
Leslie’s eyes harden, as if she’s trying to convince herself. “I can do surgery, if you want.”

  
He gives a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “You-you would’ve done it...already.”

 

“He’s right,” Montoya says, wondering why she hadn’t considered it herself. “You would have done something by now.”

  
“Pointless,” Bruce croaks.

  
Leslie sets her jaw. “Your life is far from pointless,” she tells him.

  
“Not...your fault.”

  
“I’m a doctor.” Leslie’s eyes fill with tears. “I should be able to fix this.”

  
His glassy eyes stare off into the distance. “S’okay.”

  
“Alfred,” she says. “Where is he, Bruce?”

  
“Alfred?” Bruce’s eyes fill with confusion. “Wh-where...are we?”

  
Montoya exchanges a glance with Leslie. “On your boat, headed for the island,” Montoya reminds him.

  
He blinks. “Island?”

  
“Your boyfriend thinks it’ll save you.”

  
Bruce blinks again, slowly. “Jack.”

  
“The Joker.”

  
“Where…?”

  
“Beside you,” Leslie says.

  
Bruce licked his lips. “Can’t see ‘im. Can’t…”

  
“Blurred vision?” Leslie asks.

  
Wayne tries to speak, whatever he attempted to say lost in a coughing spell.

  
“Lift his head,” Leslies orders.

  
Montoya supports Wayne’s neck, allowing Leslie to coax him into taking a few more sips.

  
He sputters. “Can’t...f-feel…”

  
“You can’t feel what?” Leslie asks.

  
He licks his slips. “Legs.” He coughs, more blood staining his lips. “M’legs.”

  
Leslie’s face goes completely ashen. “If only I could have gotten you to the clinic.”

  
“He never would have made it,” Montoya says.

  
“I would have tried.”

  
“You would have died,’ Montoya points out.

  
Wayne’s breathing grows more labordered, but he lifts his arm, weakly grasping Montoya’s arm. “Don’t…” he says. “Let her. Please. Watch...for...them…”

  
His voice fades, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  
“Don’t try to talk,” Leslie says softly, gently examining his lower body. “Save your strength.”

  
“I promise I won’t let her,” Montoya vows. He struggles to meets her gaze. “I’ll watch out for her—all of them.”

  
“Do you feel this?” Leslies asks Bruce.

  
He doesn’t answer.

  
“His legs?” Montoya asks Leslie when she’s done.

  
“He’s bleeding internally from the blast…” Leslie’s voice breaks. “It must have also damaged his spinal cord.” A tear trails down her cheek. She abandons her explanation to clutch Bruce’s hands, placing them on his chest. “I’m sorry,” she tells him tearfully. “I’m so sorry.”

  
Wayne peels his eyes open and offers her a weak and broken smile. “Always thought I’d...go out...with a bang.”

  
“ _No_ ,” a voice snaps out of nowhere. “ _Fix it.”_

  
Montoya tenses, as does Leslie. The Joker sounds livid.

  
Bruce stares up at the sky, seemingly unaware of them, every breath obviously a great effort.

  
“ _Fix him_ ,” Jack repeats.

  
Leslie bravely turns to the psychopath. “I can’t. I’m truly sorry.”

  
The Joker scrambles to his knees, a panicked expression on his face. “He can’t die. He’s not allowed.”

  
“I’m sorry—”

  
“Don’t apologize,” he snaps. “It’s a waste. You fix him—or things will go badly for all of you.”

  
Leslie stares him down. “I suggest that instead of making threats, we try to make his final hours comfortable. Besides, I think things went badly a long time ago. Can you do that?”

  
The Joker chews on his bottom lip, as if actually considering her request. He licks his lips, the scars lifting his mouth into a sinister smile. He looks down at Wayne, whose eyes had fluttered shut, his face going slack.

  
Concerned that Wayne is too still, Montoya checks his pulse.

  
The Joker swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Is he—?“

  
“It’s faint, but there.” She turns to Leslie. “He doesn’t have much time, does he?”

  
Leslie’s expression falls. “Hours.”

  
Montoya quietly observes Wayne, a wave of unexpected compassion falling over her. “It isn’t the way I thought…”

  
“None of us did,” Leslie whispers. “If only Alfred were here to comfort him. Someone who is family.”

  
“What does he need?” Jack asks tightly.

  
Leslie draws a breath. “Something to manage his pain, but I doubt he’ll take a pill crushed in water. He won’t drink it.”

  
“He will.” The Joker stares down at him. “For me.”

  
Leslie looks doubtful. “He’s barely lucid enough…”

  
“Which is even better,” the Joker says. “I’ll need a moment of privacy, if you don’t mind. I have a few, uh, pain pills in my pocket.”

  
Leslie’s brows shoot up. “Where did you get them?”

  
“The last ship we hijacked and then burned,” the Joker says cooly. “Now, do you mind?”

  
Montoya dreads leaving the Joker alone with anyone, but they have no choice. “We’ll go.” She pauses, saying to Leslie, “I’ll help you up. We can check on the boy again.”

  
“You have five minutes,” Leslie informs Jack. “Then we’ll be back.”

  
__________

 

  
After the women leave, Joker stares down at Bruce. As if sensing he was being watched, Bruce’s eyes flutter open. He squints up at Jack, then pierces him with a pitifully weak look.

  
“You know what you have to do,” Jack says.

  
Bruce’s mouth twists shut.

  
“These are your new best friends,” Jack says, holding two Vicodin up for him to see. “I’m sure you’ll be well-acquainted soon.”

  
Bruce looks away.

  
Jack laughs. “We can either do this the easy way—or the hard way.”

  
“No,” Bruce rasps.

  
“Hard way it is.” Jack grins, leaning towards him. “Just remember, Darlin’, who wears the pants in this relationship.”

  
Bruce’s eyes struggle to meet his.

  
“That’s right,” Jack says softly, patting Bruce’s cheek. “I do.”

  
Bruce jerks away from him.

  
Jack giggles. “Time to be a good little Bats, and open up.”

  
“No,” Bruce says.

  
Jack shrugs. “Have it your way, but you know,” he says, voice soft. “You did a bad thing.”

  
Bruce’s eyes flicker with curiosity.

  
“Uh-huh.” Jack nods. “You’ll be punished sooner or later, but I’d rather it be sooner, wouldn’t you?”

  
Bruce watches him. “Punished?”

  
“For saying your Henry’s name one too many times, asking about him…”

  
“No,” Bruce snarls.

  
“I don’t think you’re in a position to protest, darling.”

  
“No,” he repeats, but Jack doesn’t miss his hesitation.

  
“Fine.” Jack places the pills between his own teeth and grins. “Hold still,” he garbles out, relishing Bruce’s scowl and, at the same time, the anticipation filling his eyes.

  
Jack’s grin widens. “You want this as much as I do, Bats. I can see it on your face.”

  
He slips a hand around Bruce’s neck. As expected, Bruce squirms, just enough to be contrary. Not enough to show he hates the idea.

  
“Ah-ah-ah,” Jack warns.

  
He strokes the back of Bruce’s neck with his thumb. It doesn’t take long. Bruce’s shoulders relax after the fourth or fifth caress, his shallow breaths falling into an even rhythm with Jack’s, his eyes blown wide.

  
“There,” Jack murmurs. “That’s it.” He leans forward and squeezes the back of his neck. “Now...open.”

  
Bruce immediately complies. It’s almost too easy. Then again, Bruce’s resistance is degraded by hunger, injury—and pure, raw want.

  
Laughing to himself, Jack presses his lips against his Bats’. Bruce’s delicious lips yield to his, warm and pliant. His heart pumping wildly, Jack pushes the pills into Bruce’s mouth and onto his tongue. He deepens the kiss, moaning into it, tasting his Bat’s blood. All too soon, he reluctantly withdraws, pulling away just as things were getting messy, the way he likes it.

  
But, he has to prepare Bruce for what’s ahead. There’s a storm coming—and Bruce won’t weather it well on deck. And, although psychopath he may be, he knows just how hellish carrying Bruce to the bedroom will be in his current condition. He doesn’t want to torture his darling. Not like this.

  
“Time for your meds, my sweet.” He places two fingers under Bruce’s chin and gently presses upward, closing his mouth.

  
Their eyes meet, gazes freezing. Just like Jack, Bruce doesn’t look away.

  
Jack laughs with delight. Bruce is clearly in subspace of pain and pleasure, pure putty in his hands.

  
“Swallow,” he demands.

  
“It’s a waste,” Bruce says, although he swallows almost immediately.

  
“Hmm?”

  
“The meds. I’m dying.”

  
“No, you’re going to live,” Jack says calmly. “I won’t let you leave me.”

  
Bruce closes his eyes. “You have...no choice.”

  
“No choice? I’ll show you no choice.” Jack palms Bruce’s cock through his thin pants.

  
Bruce’s eyes flip open. Jack squeezes under the tip, eliciting a slow hiss from his Bats.

  
Jack grins wickedly. “There, there.”

  
Another moment passes, their eyes locked, Jack’s hand firm on Bruce’s cock, which warms and hardens, despite his injuries.

  
_Bruce’s legs. Paralyzed._

  
But he won’t—he can’t—think about that right now. “Feel that?”

  
Bruce’s lost expression says that he does.

  
Jack waggles his brows. “If we were in that bedroom of yours right now, what I’d do to you, Brucie—”

  
He stops at a sudden movement above them in the cockpit. He lets go of Bruce and makes a face at the figure staring down at them. “Enjoying the show?”

  
Sandy’s face is white. “You’ve gotten to him,” she whispers, looking appalled.

  
Jack rolls his eyes. “Of course I have, Toots. Bats—especially this one—are my specialty.”

  
“Leave him alone,” she says angrily.

  
“Hmmm. That’s surprising, coming from you.”

  
“I may not like Wayne, but you...you broke him.”

  
“Uh, I’m not so sure,” Jack says.

  
“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” she hisses.

  
Jack is affronted. “I’ll have you know, Brucie-boy was half-way there before I got to him, toots.”

  
“Leave him alone,” she grits out, starting the climb down the ladder.

  
Jack sighs. “It won’t change anything. You have no idea how broken he really was. Killing your friend made it easier for him to do what he really wanted to do all this time—follow me down the rabbit hole.”

  
She stands above them, shadowing his face. “You can’t honestly believe you’re helping him.”

  
Jack looks down at Wayne, who had mercifully lost consciousness.

  
He doesn’t answer.

  
He thinks if he does, it will be less real. What he feels about Wayne.

  
Sandy’s eyes widen. “Oh, my God, you do,” she exclaims.

  
His heart squeezes painfully.

  
“You honestly care for him?”

  
He can’t pinpoint why, but her accusation bothers him. “Shut up,” he growls.

  
“You can’t be serious.”

  
“What if I am?” Jack suddenly giggles. “Now there’s a conundrum.”

  
Sandy’s mouth drops open.

  
“Is there a problem?” Montoya asks from behind him.

  
Jack stands, suppressing both unfamiliar and unwanted emotions. “No, no problem, unless you count a storm when you’re in the middle of nowhere, on a small yacht that might tip dangerously if hit by a wave.”

  
“We’ll be fine,” Sandy says.

  
Montoya nods in agreement. “The boat isn’t too damaged by your previous...escapades.”

  
Jack snorts. “Murder spree is more like it. Those cannibals never had a chance, thanks to Bats,” he says fondly.

  
Sandy’s face whitens.

  
Leslie limps towards them, the boy following close behind. “Bruce?”

  
Montoya frowns. “He passed out?”

  
“Are you sure, he’s not, you know, dead?” Sandy asks.

  
Leslie carefully lowers to her knees beside Bruce. “He’s just weak, but I think his time is close. Soon he’ll be at peace.”

  
The Joker’s heart drops to the floor. “No.”

  
Leslie strokes Bruce’s cheek. “Surely you don’t want him to suffer any more than he has.”

  
Jack doesn’t know what he wants.

  
“He needs the island,” the boy announces.

  
“Not that again,” Sandy mutters.

  
“It’s true,” the runt insists.

  
Jack can’t deny his curiosity. The kid is nothing if not damn sure of himself. And—what if it is true?

  
The island _does_ things to people. One day and he’d had that figured out.

  
“Well, island or not, we have to get him inside,” Montoya says, her gaze fixated on the darkening clouds above them. “Jack, hold him by the shoulders. I’ll take his feet.”

  
The Joker refuses to move. Not when his Bats is suffering and unable to put up a fight. “No.”

  
Leslie sends him a pitying look. “I know it’s hard, but giving him that medicine was the best thing for a dying man.”

  
The Joker stands perfectly still, for a perfectly good reason.

  
He thinks he was wrong—no, he knows he was wrong—to believe everything was going to be alright.

  
They have no idea what he’s going to do once Bruce—once Bruce—once he—he

  
Jack’s chest fills with pain.

  
A world without Bats?

  
He can’t fucking breathe.

  
Montoya gives him an odd look. “Fine.” She motions to Sandy. “Well, I guess it’s up to us, then. Support his neck. Let’s get him inside.”

  
“I can help,” the boy chimes.

  
Leslie sends him a small smile. “Thank you, son. Grab the blankets.”

  
The boy nods and moves forward—but Jack stops him by the arm.

  
“You move him—and he dies—they die,” he says.

  
“Jack,” Leslie says softly. “Moving him won’t kill him. He’s on that path, already.”

  
“I don’t care. If he’s moved—and then he dies—it’s your fault.”

  
Montoya exchanges a look with Sandy. “I knew you’d change your tune, but he hasn’t even died yet.”

  
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ll kill them,” he continues, fresh thoughts springing new life inside of him. “Every single one of them.”

  
Leslie shakes her head. “It won’t matter if you kill me,” she says. “I’m old, and possibly next, anyway. Let that be enough.”

  
Jack smiles at her. “I’m not talking about you, Toots.” He looks at Montoya. “Or you.” Sandy is next. “Or you, although I should since you forced us off the boat. Or—”

  
He squeezes the boy’s thin, bony elbow. It bends to his grip like a wet noodle.

  
“Or _you_ ,” he whispers menacingly, twisting the child’s arm.

  
“Stop!” Sandy cries.

  
The boy glares up at him with a surprising show of defiance.

  
Jack frowns. Now where has he seen that before?

  
“Let him go,” Montoya demands. “He’s just a kid.”

  
Jack bows his head, looking straight into the runt’s eyes. “He’s not attached to you like he is to the other children. _You_ won’t count.”

  
“Oh, God,” Montoya whispers. “There are children?”

  
“There are...others?” Leslie clutches Bruce’s shirt from where she’s still kneeling beside him, the desperation on her face fueling Jack’s desires to unleash his vengeance on those Bruce loved. “Other survivors?”

  
A slow grin rises on Jack’s face. “Oh, you have no idea.”

 

____________

  
“He’s doing it again, Dad,” Babs says.

  
Gordon grabs the fish trap from the water. They caught more today than yesterday—a good sign that he’s finally getting the hang of things. He should’ve taken up fly fishing when Bullock had asked about a trip that one time. “And what’s that?”

  
“Talking to himself.”

  
Gordon sighs. “Let him be.”

  
“You always say that. Why?”

  
He doesn’t have the answer that she wants. “I don’t know,” he says after a pause. “I guess—we’ve all had to do things to adapt.”

  
“And if that means talking to ghosts?”

  
Gordon looks up at her. “Babs.”

  
“You don’t hear him.”

  
He has. He just doesn’t want to call attention to it. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” he admonishes.

  
“How else am I going to keep an eye out for him? You’re not,” she grumbles.

  
“Babs,” he warns.

  
“You know how he is. Careless. Reckless—“

  
“He’s a boy,” Gordon says.

  
“If I did that, you’d be worried,” she accuses him. “You never treat me the same.”

  
Gordon looks at her, guilt pricking him. “That...that’s true,” he says cautiously. “But that isn’t how you normally behave.”

  
“So it’s okay if he thinks he’s talking to mom?”

  
He can’t control the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What’s that?”

  
“I’ve heard him.” Babs’ shoulders curve inward.

  
Gordon looks over to the west, where Jimmy is gathering food for the goat. “You’ve heard him, you say?”

  
“Well, who else would he be talking to?” She huffs. “I’ve heard him talking about us, and Bruce, explaining who Bruce is.”

  
His heart skips a beat. “And?”

  
Barbara would have been shocked out of her socks to learn that the playboy, Wayne, was Gotham’s Dark Knight.

  
Babs shrugs. “You called for me before I could find out.”

  
He walks over to her, slipping an arm around her too-thin shoulders. “Maybe we should have a family meeting. Work through our grief together. We haven’t talked about her since—”

  
She pulls away. “No! I don’t want to—to share—“

  
She turns her back to him, arms folded.

  
He reaches out to her. “But—”

  
“Just don’t, Dad,” she snaps, stepping away from him again.

  
“We _should_ talk.”

  
She stiffens. “Not until Bruce gets back.”

  
Now that days have passed since Bruce left, he can’t fight the persistent dread that they’ll never see him again gnawing at his chest.

  
But how does he tell his children they’re on this island alone? For good?

  
He thinks he’s failing as a father. Failing as a grieving widower. Failing as a friend.

  
“Okay,” he says after an awkward pause.

  
He glances at Jimmy, hunched by the dwindling fire.

  
He sighs. “Let’s see to your brother.”

  
She turns and stares at him, things left unsaid between them that shouldn’t be. “I’ll get more wood.”

  
She turns and walks down the path towards the woods, leaving him to watch Jimmy’s mouth move, forming words a mile a minute that Gordon can’t hear from his vantage point.

  
Only, there’s no one beside Jimmy to listen to him, either.

  
His son is alone.

  
Like they’re alone.

  
Like Bruce is alone, with that damn psychopath.

  
He never should have agreed to them leaving, not even for Renee’s sake.

  
A cool breeze that he’s grown accustomed to on this island falls over him, shaking him from his reverie.

  
Gordon thinks he’s failing. Period.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry that two weeks turned into two months! I’m going to work on the next chapter this weekend, nothing else writing-wise. Fingers crossed. Honestly, comments fuel my inspiration! I’d love to hear what you think and all speculation!
> 
> Thank you, michael_was_filled_with_self_loathing, for looking this over for me! <3
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I ended up cutting this one in half from what I’d intended to post, for the sake of getting it up quicker. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this next update, which took far too long to write and post. Again. So sorry! I “did” split this chapter up, so it’s half of what I’d originally intended it to be, for the sole purpose of posting sooner. 
> 
>    
> Thank you, michael_was_filled_with_self_loathing, for looking it over! I appreciate it so much!
> 
> WARNING: There is a HUGE trigger in this chapter. I really hate to spoil things beforehand, so look at the bottom if you must know. If you’re easily triggered, please check there, first!

 

They leave Jack and Wayne in the far corner, crowded with Leslie, although it’s not without a fraction of guilt. But Montoya’s left with no other choice than to risk it. She needs to come to terms with Sandy.

 

She leans over the railing and relishes her next breath—the smell of salt is in the air—but not before she steals another look at the man slumped on the deck.

 

The potent smell of blood and death had followed them, the stench by Wayne too much to bear for an extended length of time, even for a seasoned cop. She wonders if Gotham is laid to waste by now, a morgue with rows beyond rows of death, stained with a similar stench. The dead, but more so—the undead. Infected walking about like rabid soldiers in a twisted, provocation to gain more followers. Their insides hanging from their sagging skin like forgotten, outdated packages of meat on their arms. Jaws falling open in a gurgling cry. Blood spewing into air unfit for such an animal. Knowing no fear as they stake their claim on every inch of dry land. A suffocating silence and eerie stillness in their wake, otherwise.

 

Wayne’s injury is the worst of it, she thinks. If he’s injured so severely, and now paralyzed, an unfashionable thought for the once-strong and enduring vigilante, there’s no way he can take care of bodily functions on his own. Or control them. Or do much for himself in his present state.

 

Beside her, Sandy wrinkles her nose. “So you noticed that, too?”

 

It’s impossible to ignore. “He can’t help it. It’s probably the boat, too,” she says. “Didn’t they say they’ve encountered more boats?”

 

‘And killed others’ goes unsaid.

 

Sandy hums in agreement, her eyes sharpening on the pregnant storm clouds floating heavily in the sky above them. “I can’t believe I’m staying this,” she mutters. “But I actually feel sorry for him.”

 

That Wayne’s condition stirs pity is an understatement. She swallows the bitterness of it. “We should help Dr. Thompkins...with…with...” Her throat burns thinking of handling the man and his shit. His literal shit. “ _Things_.”

 

Sandy’s brow furrows. “I feel for the guy, I really do, but that doesn’t mean I’m playing Florence Nightingale.”

 

For as little time as he has left, they should all be willing to help the man. “What are you playing at?”

 

The other woman firms her jaw and pointedly ignores the question. “Is this all we’re going to do? Let the Joker manipulate us?”

 

Montoya won’t push her for answers—yet. She has bigger things to worry about. The Joker refuses to relinquish any information about other, possible survivors, and she isn’t going to wait for him to enlighten them. They have to return to the island whether or not there are people there waiting for Wayne’s return. She has to take control of the wheel and lead them. What she should’ve done from the beginning. She is a cop, and a damn good one at that. It’s her job. Her life. In the midst of everything, she’d forgotten.

 

“I don’t want to risk moving him,” she says.

 

“We can’t just leave him there.” Sandy motions vaguely towards Wayne.

 

“You changed your tune soon enough. I thought you didn’t care.”

 

“It’s not right. Leaving him here. For any of us, including the doctor. She’ll stay out here with them, you know, no matter what the weather is like.”

 

She has a point. “Okay, but what about the Joker?’

 

“Him?” Sandy scoffs. “He’s lying.”

 

“Baiting us, you mean?”

 

“I can hear you,” Jack sings.

 

She looks back. He’s cradling Wayne’s pale face in his hands.

 

She pulls her eyes away from the discomforting sight. “The storm is coming faster than I’d thought. He stays where he is, but we can rig some type of shelter.”

 

“The deck will flood. He’d drown,” Sandy argues. “We have to move him.”

 

“Over my dead body,” Joker intones.

 

“I know a way,” a small voice announces beside them.

 

Montoya glances down at the boy. He’d been so quiet, she’d nearly forgotten him. His cheeks are red, forehead flushed, eyes glazed. And certainly brave, to defy a psychotic clown.

 

“You should be in bed,” she says.

 

He scrunches his nose. “I never stay in bed when I’m sick.”

 

Leslie stands, age and weariness bowing her shoulders. “Sometimes that’s just what a body needs needs to recover.”

 

He shakes his head. “Not mine. My grandfather says I’m special.”

 

“Your grandfather.” Leslie limps over to him, her right foot dragging behind her. “That’s the first I’ve heard you speak of him.”

 

He tilts his head back to stare up at her. “He raised me.”

 

“Where is he?” Montoya asks, seeing the perfect opportunity to get answers she needed.

 

The boy wipes his sleeve across his face, sniffling. “I’m not sure.” For the first time his voice catches, and he sounds like the young child he is. “He—he comes. A-and he goes. I hardly see him.”

 

Sandy crouches in front of him, for the first time looking sincere. “If he’s like a ghost, how did he raise you?”

 

The boys shoulders hunch forward. “There were others.”

 

“Family?”

 

He shrugs.

 

“What’s your name?” Montoya asks.

 

He shifts on his feet as if he’s receiving a scolding at school. “I can’t—can’t say.”

 

Montoya thinks quickly. “They—this league—told you not to? Did they threaten you?”

 

The boy’s eyes meet her wary glance. “What do you know about it?”

 

Leslie looks softly at him. “What did they tell you, young man?”

 

He hunches further, trying to disappear into himself.

 

“You can tell us.” Montoya looks back at Wayne, then back at the boy. “If it will help him. He saved you. All of us.”

 

The reminder seems to work. The boy gazes at Wayne for a moment, then slowly nods. “They...they told me never to tell.”

 

This kind of manipulation is disgusting. “Why?” she demands.

 

“They said they’ll find me and kill me if I do,” he says in a small voice.

 

“I think Mr. Wayne took care of that problem for you. You don’t have to be afraid of them anymore.”

 

But his fear spills over into his speech. “You don’t know what they are capable of,” he whispers shakily. “That they’re...they’re dead...doesn’t matter.”

 

“For a five-year-old boy, you speak very well,” Leslie says.

 

His eyes spark. “I had a lot of time to read, and many lessons. My mother—”

 

“Mother?” Sandy wraps her hand around the boy’s arm in a crushing grip.

 

He winces and tries to pulls away, but her hold is fast.

 

“Your mother. Where is she?” she demands, spouting the words off in his face.

 

He averts his head, staring down at his feet, which are bare, filthy—and bleeding. He’s fidgeting because he’s hurt. Those cuts are fresh. Most of them, anyway.

 

“She taught me things,” he says, a tight whisper that echoes sorrow. “I miss her.”

 

“Did she teach you about the infected?” Montoya asks, crouching beside Sandy to look closer at the boy. “How to avoid them?”

 

“Where is she?” Sandy asks, grabbing his other arm in an iron lock.

 

The boy’s eyes fill with pain.

 

“Hey,” Montoya says, clutching the woman’s wrist. “Take it easy, alright?”

 

Sandy’s jaw clenches. She loosens her grip, but the damage is done. The boy’s eyes widen with fear. Sandy exhales a long breath, her eyes softening, also. “Have you seen your mother?” she asks, but gently this time.

 

He looks at her strangely. “My mother?”

 

“You mother. What did she say about the infected?” Montoya asks.

 

If the kid’s mother is part of this League of Wayne’s—and as intelligent as she thinks she is—she would have had the foresight to discuss even this with her young son.

 

He shrugs his slim shoulders. “That they’re just pawns.”

 

“For?”

 

He stares past her.

 

“Son, please answer us,” Leslie says, her voice loud and clear.

 

“Pawns for what?” Montoya repeats.

 

He blinks. “For whom.”

 

“Whom?”

 

He raises his arm and points. “Him.”

 

Montoya follows the imaginary, projected line of sight until it reaches the one man they need to get them out of this mess but that they couldn’t depend on for anything—but was dying soon.

 

She really shouldn’t have been surprised.

 

Really shouldn’t have.

 

Really.

 

Shouldn’t.

 

Have.

 

 _Wayne_.

 

____________

 

 

“Wayne, Barbara.” He dad drops his head in his hands. “Where is he?”

 

“Looking for Renee, remember?” Barbara says, securing the end of the bandage she’d wrapped around her hand.

 

Stinging makes her eyes smart. She grits her teeth, ignoring the pain. It’s minimal. At least, that’s what she tells herself. In reality, it throbs, as if she’s been struck by a hammer.

 

She’d been foolish in the woods, minding her thoughts, not her task, and a tree had bitten her. Well, not really, of course. But a beetle she’d never seen before had crawled like nobody’s business up her wrist, down her skin to her hand, and pinched her skin.

 

It died right after stinging her, and now her index finger looking like it’d been bitten by a lobster. Red. Swollen. Immovable. She’ll be lucky if she can use it in a day or two. She couldn’t let her dad see it, but she’d needed the first aid kit back at camp.

 

But sitting on a makeshift chair built of old wood, her father isn’t paying attention to anything around him, only his own misery. She’s half-tempted to show him her injury just to get a reaction from him.

 

“He should be here,” he mutters.

 

“He’s not.”

 

“He should be.”

 

“But he’s not—he’ll be back, Dad.”

 

“Not soon enough.”

 

She’d remind him of the missing detective, but he’d probably forget again. “Wayne knows how to survive out here, Dad. He can take care of himself.”

 

“He’s not doing a good job of it. Did you see how thin he looked? I thought he could be sick.” He sneezes and wipes his nose with the edge of his shirt. “Speaking of sick, I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

 

She looks at him sympathetically, although she’s not sure how he’d caught that cold. None of them had been sick before they’d left Gotham. “Your eyes are red.”

 

“Are they?” His head dips down, his chin reaching his chest, as if weighted down by his despair. “He should be here,” he repeats with a deep sigh. “And I—I think I’m worrying too much.”

 

She bites back a retort. It isn’t the first time she’s felt like she was the adult and her dad, the child. “I guess we’ll have to make do.”

 

“How?”

 

Her heart leaps in her chest. What kind of question is that? Maybe he’s really sick, like he says? “Well, you’re a cop. Thought it would come easy for you.”

 

“This?” Her father eyes grow cold. “Surviving without another adult to watch over you while I’m away in the woods? Trapped—maybe for life—on this damn island? Without your mother? With a psychopath and someone I’m not sure is all there, either?”

 

His words drive the sorrow she’d tried hard to forget back into her heart.

 

Something isn’t right with her dad. Something isn’t right with any of them, she’ll be the first to admit that. She’s twelve but feels as if she’d aged a hundred years overnight, taking her mother’s place in the family.

 

Her gaze wanders around the camp, where a seat beside her father is vacant when it shouldn’t be. Her thoughts suddenly jolt. “Where’s Jimmy?”

 

“Jimmy?” her dad echoes.

 

She stands, a chill traveling down her spine. “He was supposed to stay with you, remember?”

 

“He was? I thought he was with you.”

 

She grits her teeth. “Dad.”

 

“What?”

 

She throws up her hands in exasperation. “Jimmy!”

 

He shakes his head a bit. “I don’t…” He raises his hand, fumbling to knead his forehead. “Where’d he go?”

 

She catalogues the discrepancy but steps forward, her eyes quickly finding another pair of footprints along the sand. “There.” She points to the obvious set of prints, which she hadn’t seen before, and her father still hasn’t observed for himself.

 

His eyes remain closed. And his mind—is it that he’s unwell or something else?

 

She brushes her worry aside—it doesn’t matter. She has to find Jimmy and these—whatever they are—have become common occurrences on the island. She can’t let them get to her.

 

“Let’s go,” she says, taking him by the arm and hauling him forward.

 

Her dad trails behind her, stumbling between the tall weeds and broken branches, his breath labored when it shouldn’t be—and she is discomfited even more.

 

When she was little, before Jimmy had been born, and in the still of night before she went to bed, she’d love to dance with her dad in the kitchen. Balanced on her father’s shoes, guided by his steps and his hands gently taking hers as they moved to the beat of the music.

 

Here—and in this hellish place—she should be following him. She’s always followed his lead.

 

The tracks stops where the sandline ends, but she thinks she hears it. A voice. A mumble. Whispers.

 

“Barbara,” her dad says. “I—”

 

She holds her hand up to silence him.

 

Her dad’s eyes finally sharpen. He nods and has the wherewithal to be quiet.

 

It comes from beyond where her dad is standing. A voice. A boy’s voice. “... _and then we found a bus. It was empty._ ” He pauses. “ _Sort of._ ”

 

Barbara sucks in a breath. “There,” she mouths.

 

Her dad blinks. He pivots on his heel, turning around, and points east. “There?” he mouths.

 

She nods, all the pieces falling into place when she chases after him this time, instead.

 

Her dad slows once they reach a twenty square foot clearing that she doesn’t recognize. She frowns as her dad steps into it, a barely lighted spot in the thick forest that seemed to have come out of nowhere, but once she sees Jimmy, and that he’s alone, she doesn’t think about it again.

 

Jimmy hasn’t seen them yet, nor is he accompanied by anyone.

 

She doesn’t understand why Jimmy wants to have an imaginary friend—or whatever it is—but there’s nothing she can possibly do about it. Her dad always sided with Jimmy—never her. Why should she think any differently here?

 

“I guess,” Jimmy continues, poking at the ground with a small stick. “I miss him and hope he comes back.”

 

His face suddenly brightens. He stares up at the air—thin air—and asks as if someone is actually listening to him, “Really? They’ll be here soon?”

 

“Jimmy?” her dad whispers.

 

But Jimmy simply stares into the blank space, expression awed. “How do you know? When?”

 

Enough of this. “Jimmy.” Barbara pushes past her dad and stands where Jimmy’s “ghost” would be. “You can’t just leave us—leave Dad—like this. How will we be able to find you?”

 

Jimmy’s shoulders stiffen. He shoots her a resentful look. “Why not? No one notices where I am, anyway.”

 

“Please, Jimmy,” her dad says softly. “It scares me when you go missing.”

 

Jimmy frowns. “Cops can’t get scared.”

 

Her dad smiles tentatively. “Well, I do—when it has to do with you kids. I need you to listen when we ask you to stay close.”

 

“We?” Jimmy sends Barbara a dirty look. “Why do I have to listen to her?”

 

“You’ll listen to your ghost—to Mom—but you won’t to me?” she asks sarcastically.

 

“Mom?” Jimmy asks with a furrowed brow.

 

She crosses her arms. “Yes, you heard me. You’re pretending Mom is here.”

 

He sticks his tongue out. “I ain’t pretending. You’re just too stubborn to see them.”

 

“And you’re going to let this continue?” she accuses her dad.

 

Her dad sighs. “Jimmy, Barbara, let’s discuss this after Bruce returns.”

 

“You always say that,” she interrupts him.

 

He closes his mouth.

 

“It’s your excuse for everything.”

 

“It isn’t.”

 

“You say it all the time, Dad,” she says, exasperatedly.

 

“I don’t. I—don’t mean to, I guess.”

 

“What if he doesn’t come back.” It’s not a question. Someone has to be realistic.

 

“He is coming back!” Jimmy exclaims.

 

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I suppose Mom told you this?”

 

“I wasn’t talking to Mom,” Jimmy says, standing up.

 

“What?”

 

“I wasn’t talking to Mom,” he repeats.

 

She snorts. “We’ve heard you, Jimmy.”

 

“So? That means nothin’.”

 

“Jimmy.” Her dad goes over to him, looking tired. “I think we’ve had enough of the pretending for one night.”

 

“I’m not pretending,” he says, looking offended. “He was here. I swear!”

 

Barbara is, admittedly, confused. “He?”

 

“Who?” Dad asks at the same time.

 

Jimmy lifts his chin. “The bad man.”

 

Not Jack. Please not Jack, she thinks to herself. She can’t stand the thought of two of them. “The Joker?’

 

Jimmy shakes his head. “The burned one. From the roof.”

 

Her dad stares at him. “Oh, no,” he whispers.

 

Barbara’s heart stops. “Not Mom?”

 

“The bad guy who took us, but he’s gone now. You chased him off,” Jimmy says, scowling at them.

 

“Dad?” Barbara says, voice shaking.

 

His face leeches of color. “I think...I think he means…”

 

“Dad,” she says. “Just tell me.”

 

But she doesn’t want him to. She doesn’t want to hear.

 

Her father swallows. “...I think that he means…”

 

“Dent,” Jimmy says for him with a proud smile. “Harvey Dent. And he loves the island. He told me _all_ about it.”

 

_______

 

 

“ _Wayne_ ,” a voice hisses.

 

Bruce cracks open his eyes. It’s dark, it’s light, it’s everything in between. He sees the beach, the ship, the water—all at once. The vision burns his eyes, and he closes them quickly. He tries to steady his breath, but something cold and brittle and strong locks his wrist in a vise.

 

His eyes startle open. The Face of Terror stares down at him.

 

Mesmerized by the creature, he stares back. Nothing makes sense—especially not the mangled face as it lowers, its hot breath searing his flesh with what feels like a wound—and future scar—into his own skin.

 

The laughter starts then, but it isn’t Jack’s laugh. It isn’t the Joker’s.

 

Even still, he knows that laugh.

 

He watches the creature in shock. It can’t be.

 

“But you’re dead,” Bruce whispers, horrified.

 

“Am I?” Harvey leans forward, his scarred mouth twisted up in a mocking smile. “ _Boo.”_

 

Bruce flinches.

 

“Stop, Harvey,” Rachel says, suddenly standing beside him, her dress winding around her feet, hiding them until it appears as if she’s gliding when she should be walking.

 

Her presence, although it had always soothed him before, does nothing to ease his fears. His heart thuds powerfully in his chest.

 

“Leave him alone,” she demands.

 

Harvey chuckles. It isn’t a nice sound. There’s nothing good about it. “Why? Afraid I’ll scare poor Brucie Boy to death?”

 

“Harvey,” she says harshly.

 

The looming figure spins around to look at her. Bruce blinks again, wishing this was a dream, or a hallucination, but the monster—Harvey—doesn’t disappear.

 

“Well, he’s here, isn’t he?” Harvey challenges. “He’ll never be left alone now. You know how it is on the island.” He turns back to Bruce and grins, his smile thin and breaking and grotesque. “And it looks like a bit of really shitty reality came with him. Welcome to the club, Wayne,” he adds, bowing in a grand gesture, his hand waving to his own half-mangled face.

 

Bruce doesn’t think of himself as slow, or stupid, even now when he’s at his worst, but for one long moment, he doesn’t have a clue as to what Harvey is talking about.

 

“Oh, Bruce,” Rachel says. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

 

“Taking his side, I see,” Harvey mutters. “Why am I not surprised?”

 

She stares down at Bruce with a soft smile, but her next words are directed at Harvey. “He’s not here, yet. Not completely. If he were, he’d be able to walk. You know that. We’re all mobile, somehow, once we’ve passed on.”

 

A groan rises in his chest he can’t suppress. “My legs.”

 

“Shhh,” she murmurs, hand soft on his cheek. “It’s okay. It will be okay.”

 

He wants to trust her, even though it’s a lie. How can anything be okay?

 

Harvey laughs. “Now, that’s not true, Rachel. He won’t be able to walk, not really. You were blown up and now you fly, remember? Logic dictates that if he’s paralyzed, he’ll be an angel, just like you,” he finishes sarcastically.

 

Bruce is almost certain Harvey is enjoying rubbing his current, physical state in his face. He remembers it all clearly, now. His legs. _His legs._ He can’t feel them. They don’t move. Or twitch. Or anything. He’s stuck. Dependent in this new hell. Envying Rachel with him once again. Forced to endure Dent’s ridicule. And Rachel’s Pity.

 

He’s not sure which is worse.

 

But if this is it for him—this warped reality—being on the outside looking in, it’s what he deserves.

 

Harvey laughs. Bruce gets the distinct feeling that the dead man—if that is what one would call him—loves every minute of Bruce’s comeuppance.

 

He watches as she touches them—his feet—his knees—his thighs—with touches he cannot feel. But her smile never wanes, her confidence in him never falters. “No, but don’t worry.”

 

Harvey’s eyes glimmer with a powerful, inhuman light. And, for the first time, Bruce sees Gordon and his family, cleaning up their camp, watching the fire, but they never look his way.

 

It’s as if he isn’t there.

 

“What is this?” Bruce whispers. “What’s happening?”

 

He wants to call out, but he has a feeling they wouldn’t hear him, either.

 

“You’re on an island, Bruce,” Harvey says. “An i—s—l—a—n—d,” he draws out slowly, and mockingly.

 

“Harvey,” Rachel warns. “Stop. That isn’t helping.”

 

“And your plan will? There’s nothing you can do to change this, Rachel,” Harvey says.

 

“People need him.”

 

Harvey huffs. “Nothing will help him, Rachel,” he repeats. “You should know that by now. How long have we’ve been here? Hmm?”

 

She shakes her head, and for the first time, the glow that had surrounded her before is revealed in its true form. Her body is in pieces, allowing the light to shine through.

 

She’s always been a puzzle. He’d always wanted her but she’d made it difficult for him. Now, he thinks, with his heart pounding in his ears, she’s even more challenging to understand. Separated by destruction—and love—her form one, but not.

 

How is this possible? “Where am I really? Where are you? Where’s my physical body?” he demands.

 

She catches his eye, and her voice echoes in his head like before. “You’ll see. The island wants you to see, Bruce.”

 

Harvey stills. “We need to move. Wayne, here, will have to stay.”

 

She sends him a look. “With Bruce.”

 

Bruce lifts onto his elbows, cursing his invalid self as he watches his friends, wondering if they’ll mourn him long and hoping they don’t. To survive, they need to move on as quickly as possible. An unbearable wave of grief sweeps over him.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says hoarsely. “Let me die. In peace.”

 

“Harvey,” Rachel presses.

 

Harvey’s one good eye rolls. “Fine.”

 

Before Bruce knows what the other man is doing, Harvey slips his arms underneath him and lifts him up, effortlessly.

 

Startled, and overcome with vertigo, Bruce strains against the hold, but in vain. “Where are we going?”

 

Rachel doesn’t answer.

 

“I confess I expected more resistance, Wayne,” Harvey says, sounding disappointed. “How many pounds _have_ you lost, if you don’t mind me asking? You’re a lightweight now.”

 

Bruce ignores him. “Rachel?”

 

“You’ll see,” she murmurs, her eyes gleaming with an answer he desperately wants for his own.

 

He doesn’t want to go. “Rachel—Harvey—please. I don’t—I don’t want to stay like this.”

 

Between the living and the dead. In stasis, without a respite.

 

Death would be better. Death would give him rest. He knows this, instinctively.

 

“You won’t, Bruce.” She looks at him one long moment before gliding along the beach, towards the woods. “I won’t let you.”

 

It’s the wrong thing to say. “I’m not yours to toy with,” he says, jaw clenching.

 

“Huh.” Harvey lurches with his first step. “There’s that fire.”

 

The next few steps are worse than the last, and Bruce rocks back, forced to settle against Harvey’s chest for the journey to who knows where. And he’s tired. So very tired. Dizzy. Weak.

 

“You’ve lost too much blood,” Rachel intones. “You’re going back and forth between here and there—it’s taxing. Believe me. I know.”

 

He glares at the back of her head, helpless to her reading his damn mind. To their decision as they take him away from Gordon and the others, who still have no idea that ghosts—and an almost ghost—walk among them.

 

Harvey’s uneven gait jars him, but the other man’s appearance grows even more disturbing in the moonlight. Most of Harvey’s jawbone on the left side shows through an open spot of his face, a flap of skin that shifts to reveal the rotting teeth in the back of his mouth.

 

The destruction brings back every dark deed Bruce has ever committed. And his failures multiply, his incompetencies, most of all.

 

Harvey grins down at him, as if sensing Bruce’s gaze.

 

Bruce doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking away. “You don’t have to carry me.”

 

“Oh?” Harvey asks, raising his good brow. “You plan on walking there yourself?”

 

“You know I can’t. Put me down. Forget about me and go on your way.”

 

“Always the martyr,” Harvey mutters.

 

“Please, Harvey,” Bruce pleads.

 

“And face Rachel’s wrath for the rest of eternity? Not on your life.” He breaks into a laugh, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s heard.

 

“Put me down, Harvey,” Bruce repeats, annoyed by the madman, who flashes his teeth.

 

“Just returning the favor.”

 

Bruce swallows, his chest and hopes and dreams hollowed out until there is nothing left to call his own. He’s empty. “You call this a favor?”

 

“You think I wanted to leave that warehouse? My only connection to Rachel? No. Hell, no, Wayne,” Harvey sneers. “Just like you do now—I wanted to die.”

 

___________

 

 

“This is all…kinda anticlimactic, don’t you think?” Jack asks, his fingers drumming along Bruce’s forearm.

 

Leslie looks at them both, sadly. Bruce’s pulse is weak, his skin turned gray, body cold. He sinks further into death’s arms, his mouth gaping open with each gasp. She doesn’t interrupt the one-sided conversation that Jack’s been carrying on for the past hour, although she’d considered doing so. But she’d wondered if his subconsciousness had heard Jack. For Bruce’s sake, she hoped so—and let it be.

 

“You. Me.” Jack closes his eyes, drawing his lips into a smile. “Here, in all our devious glory. You don’t want to miss it, Bats. I was just getting started.”

 

She doesn’t care for the obvious way in which Jack cares for Bruce, but she hates the thought of a man she’d loved like a son dying alone. Not that it matters much. He’s almost gone.

 

And she envies the easy way in which Jack talks to him. Simple and unafraid. Unassuming and accepting.

 

She fights back tears. “Jack,” she whispers. “It’s best if you say your goodbyes now.”

 

“Tomorrow, we’ll wake up and show Babs the proper way to fight,” Jack says as if he hadn’t heard. “That means giving it your best shot, Darlin’. I know you have a lot of angst stored up in that head and heart of yours. It’s about time we took care of it before you take it out on someone else—and regret it later.”

 

“Jack.”

 

He glares at her through the narrow slits of his eyes. “I’m busy.”

 

She waits a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

 

She sits back, pressing her body against the side of the boat, although it’s as cold as Bruce’s body. She shivers, crosses her arms, and looks up towards the cockpit. Montoya took the wheel, surprisingly without much trouble from Sandy, in the end.

 

The detective knows what she’s doing. They travel swiftly and should reach the island soon.

 

She’s worried about the boy, who can’t keep warm, even though he’s in the bedroom, curled under the bedcovers, wearing several layers of clothing. But she’s lost heat, too. It’s as if a blanket of ice has settled upon the ship, bringing a suffocating stillness with it, bringing death.

 

She slips her hand out of her glove and holds one of Bruce’s, maybe for the last time, although she tries not to think of it like that.

 

But she’s too late. Bruce is no longer breathing. The pulse she expects to feel with her fingers at the underside of his wrist—is gone. Gratefully, Bruce’s eyes had already closed.

 

Her breath catches. She looks at Jack. He looks at her. Neither of them speak.

 

It had happened too soon. Too quickly. She feels as if she’s failed not only Bruce, but Jack, too.

 

And that she’d failed him—Jack—the Joker—is one sick joke.

 

Jack makes a sound, a bitter, wretched noise in the back of his throat.

 

“Jack, I’m…” She pauses, unsure as to how to comfort him when her own heart has shattered. “I’m—”

 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses through clenched teeth, his eyes glinting hard and black. “Don’t. You. Fucking. _Dare_.”

 

Grief swells within her, swallowing her next words. She stares at him, caught, immeasurably, in their abyss of pain. She’s lost in them. Wholly, and completely, lost.

 

For the first time since she saw him on the boat, fear overcomes her. Trembling, she lets go of Bruce’s hand, Jack snatching it from Wayne’s chest before she loses contact with him.

 

She scoots back as far away from them as she possibly can, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She can’t stop shaking. She can’t stop thinking this is the end for her, too.

 

Bruce’s demise is death. Death for all of them.

 

The look in Jack’s eyes—the anger—confusion—sorrow—is more frightening than any horror she’s ever witnessed. More chilling than anything she’s ever felt.

 

She’s cold—oh-so-cold—deep into the marrow of her aged bones.

 

She’s growing numb. Maybe she shouldn’t care anymore. It would be that much easier.

 

Jack clutches Wayne’s lifeless body to his chest. He runs a pale hand though the billionaire's ragged hair, smiling down at his still, handsome face as if all is right in their world. “Don’t worry about the children, Darlin’,” he soothes. “I’ll start with Gordon first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, review? ❤️ Your comments mean the world! Thank you for reading! 
> 
> WARNING: Major (Temporary) Character Death

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: possible triggery material, mention of cannibalism, descriptions of violence
> 
> Thank you for reading! Reviews are most welcome! :) I’m on Tumblr and trying to get in the habit of posting fic-related things, including images that have inspired details in this particular story. Feel free to look me up! My handle is [arrowinthesky.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/arrowinthesky)


End file.
